THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


- 


/ 


ECHOES  OF  THE  PAST, 


BY 


S.   S.   LUCE. 


GALESVILLE: 

S,  S,  LUCE  &  SON,  PRINTERS, 
1881, 


rs 


VISIONS  OF  THE  PAST. 


HOW  clearly  come  the  echoes  of  the  past, 
As  standing  on  life's  summit,  we  look  back 
To  mark  our  difficult,  imperfect  track, 
And  down  the  western  slope  our  vision  cast, 
To  where  our  earthly  sun  must  set  at  last : 
While  on  we  go,  yet  clearer  and  more  clear, 
The  old  familiar  sounds  fall  on  our  ear- 
Now  soft  and  sweet,  and  now  like  trumpet  blast. 
I  caught  these  echoes  on  the  trembling  string, 
And  tried  to  hold  them  in  my  feeble  clasp  ; 
Like  some  enchanting  spell  to  which  we  cling, 
Yet  seems  forever  to  elude  our  grasp  ! 
Such  as  they  are,  imperfect,  incomplete, 
My  friends,  I  lay  these  Echoes  at  your  feet. 


762925 


ERRATA. 


PAGE.  LINE. 

11  5th.,  read  Buoyant  for  '  Boyant.' 

23  9th.,  read  stayed  for  '  staid.' 

40  8th.,  read  shone  for  '  shown.' 

06  16th.,  read  dross  for  'dress.' 

66  19th.,  read  guide  for  '  gide.' 
72  6th.,  read  Who  met  at  that,  etc. 

Ill  5th.,  read  eyes  for  'eye.' 

135  15th.,  read  crowd  for  'croud.' 

143  9th.,  omit  was. 

150  20th.,  supply  a  after  to. 

185  14th.,  read  monotony  for  '  monotory.' 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

Labor        .              .  1 

In  Memoriam                .  11 

Sugaring  Time  14 

The  Woodman's  Daughter  17 

That  Council  of  Cork         ...  20 

Song  of  County  Seat    .             .  23 

The  Country  'Squire          .              .  25 

Stanzas            .  35 

August                  ...  37 

Harvest  Moon             .  39 

October                   .           .  41 

November  43 

Winter  Song  44 

1879  .  46 

1880  ....  47 
Early  Friends  48 


The  Meadow  Lark             ...  49 

Who  Can  Tell            .             .  .             .52 

Sing  the  Old  Time  Song.  .             .             54 

Sing  While  You  May             .  .             .56 

Aunt  Rhoda         ....  57 

The  Mountain  Stream              .  .              .GO 

In  Memory  of  Alex.  McGilvray  .      63 

How  Shall  it  Be  ?             .  .              .            65 

Whistling  on  the  Sidewalk     .  .             .67 

The  Infant's  Grave            .  .             .            69 

The  Little  Brown  School-house  .             .71 

Memory  of  a  Friend         .  .              .             73 

The  Young  Angler                 .  .             .      75 

The  Moderate  Drinker's  Song  ,             .             78 

Boyhood           .           .             .  .             .      81 

Cropp       .             .             .  .                          89 

The  Single  Prohibition  Vote  ..             .      93 

Life          .             .             .  .'            ..            96 

December       .             .            ....'  .             .      97 

Farewell  to  Eighteen-eighty  .            ->„          100 

The  Press                .                 '..  ,  .,          .    102 

Stanzas             .                   .  .             :  .         104 

Death,  (burial  of  A.  R.  Wyman)  .             ,    105 

Lines          .            .             ,  .             .           106 

The  Veteran's  Request           .  '  .'           '.'  108 


Lines               .              .  .              .              .110 

To  A  Western  Owl           .  .              .            Ill 

The  Recluse                .  .             .             .113 

Lines         .....  153 
The  White  Owl          ....    155 

Hard  Times          .             .  .             .158 

Bob     .             .             t  ,  .       V             .161 

Retrospect             .  164 

Death  of  a  Sister         .  166 

A  Mother's  Love  .167 

Madness           .  168 

Autumn  Tints  169 

Garfield             .  170 

Regret       .             .             .  .             .172 

Death  of  Decora  174 

The  Fountain        .  177 

Long  Ago       .             .  .             m            .178 

The  Apple-sauce  Man     .  .                          180 

CORRESPONDENCE. 

Letter  to  Miss  L.  c.  R.  F. 
Letter  to  a  Friend 
Letter  to  Same 
Letter  to  Mrs.  M,  M.  B. 
Echoes  of  the  Past 


LABOR. 


HEAD  BEFORE  THE 

NORTHWESTERN  DISTRICT  CONVENTION   OF 
FARMERS,  AT    GALESVILLE     WIS., 
JAN.  7TH.  1880. 


IX  making  out  a  bill  of  tare, 
Our  farmer  friends  are  well  aware 

Sonic  dishes  of  unsavory  kind 
A  place  among  the  others  find  ; 
And  thus  I  bring  my  offering  here 
In  contrast  to  your  better  cheer, 
With  much  of  trembling  for  its  fate 
Among  these  critics  of  our  State. 


LABOR. 

By  Eve's  advice  in  days  of  old, 
Man  ate  forbidden  fruit,  'tis  said, 

And  ever  after,  we  are  told, 

Was  forced  to  work  to  earn  his  bread  ; 

A  sad  mistake  as  all  agree — 

.  To  frustrate  thus  what  God  designed — 

And  brought  eternal  misery 
Forever  after  to  mankind. 

This  was  the  price  that  Adam  paid 
For  knowledge  ;  and  it  left  a  debt 

That  no  one  ever  can  evade — 

Which  has  not  half  been  cancelled  yet. 

It  seems  if  this  primeval  pair. 

Had  lived  in  ignorance  and  bliss, 
We  had  inherited  our  share 

From  that  day  even  unto  this — 
Of  that  same  ignorance  and  joy, 

Of  that  same  fruit  without  the  toil — 
Sweet  dreamless  nights  without  alloy, 

And  days  devoid  of  care  for  spoil. 


LABOR.  ^ 

Twere  worse  than  vain  to  here  repeat 
The  trite  old  tale  of  Adam's  curse, 

So  fraught  with  misery  complete, 
Recorded  in  Miltonic  verse, 

With  stately  measure,  grand,  sublime, 
That  scorns  the  fetters 'of  a  rhyme. 

Enough  to  know  that  Adam's  fate 

Was  sealed ;  and  'neath  th'  Almighty  scorn 
Was  turned  without  the  elysian  gate, 

And  misery  and  toil  were  born. 

'Twas  thus  that  farming  first  began, 
And  downward  to  the  present  day, 

The  common  heritage  of  man, 
Has  ever  onward  held  its  way. 

First  herds  that  cropped  the  herbage  crude, 
With  tents  to  shelter  from  the  storm, 

Young  earth  a  boundless  solitude— 
A  wilderness,  in  primal  form. 


LABOR. 

The  burning  sun  to  rule  by  day  ; 

The  moon  and  stars  to  shine  by  night, 
To  guide  two  pilgrims  on  their  way 

From  mental  darkness  into  light. 
It  would  be  tedious  to  trace 

The  course  of  agricultural  skill : 
Centuries  on  centuries  crept  apace, 

And  it  had  gained  small  progress  still. 

In  later  years,  when  Virgil  wrote 

His  pastorals  in  Latin  verse, 
It'  his  bucolics    I    should  quote, 

'Twould  give  you  cholics  that  are  worse. 
To  think  of  milking  sheep  and  goats 

Instead  of  cows  of  modern  breed ; 
Or  chasing  those  long  snouted  shoats. 

Would  be  a  sorry  task  indeed. 

Leaving  behind  those  poets  sage 
Who  sang  of  agriculture  rude, 

I  pass  to  the  medievial  age, 

When  methods  were  about  as  crude. 


LABOR. 

A  proud  and  haughty  warlike  race, 

That  in  those  stirring  feudal  days 
Lived  oft  by  conquest  or  the  chase, 

And  in  most  rude  outlandish  ways, 
When  might  was  right.     The  arts  of  peace 

Declined  and  languished  ;  in  their  place 
The  bloody  arts  of  war  increased 

And  feuds  and  rapine  marched  apace. 
Men  fought  for  spoil,  men  fought  for  creeds, 

And  oft  for  vengance  in  their  rage ; 
The  record  of  their  cruel  deeds 

Mars  many  a  leaf  of  history's  page. 

When  later  came  our  fathers  o'er 

For  freedom's  sake — freedom  of  thought, 
And  landed  on  New  England's  shore, 

It  was  a  freedom  dearly  bought. 
They  battled  with  the  sterile  soil — 

Against  the  treacherous  savage  band — 
They  labored  on  with  patient  toil 

With  perils  thick  on  every  hand 


LABOR. 

As  ore  is  purged  of  filthy  dross 
When  in  the  fiery  furnace  tried, 

So  human  souls  of  passions  gross, 
Are  by  sore  trials  purified. 

Thus  the  "New  World"  in  days  of  old, 
When  sown  with  Puritanic  seed, 

Bore  wills  of  iron,  hearts  of  gold, 
Yet  bound  by  superstitious  creed, 

And  to  those  Puritans  severe 

This  nation  owes  a  lasting  debt. 
Their  memory  we  should  revere 

Their  sterling  virtues  ne'er  forget. 

They  sowed  the  germ,  and  by  their  toil, 
Subdued  the  rank  and  noxious  weeds 

That  sprung  spontaneous  from  the  soil. 
Theirs  were  not  sounding  words,  but  deeds. 

And  now  a  nation  strong  and  free, 
We  reap  a  generous  recompense  ; 

Our  free  lands  reach  from  sea  to  sea, 
And  span  a  mighty  continent. 


LABOR. 

These  are  the  fruits  of  patient  toil, 
These  the  rewards  of  virtuous  lives, 

And  he  who  cultivates  the  soil 
By  honest  labor  always  thrives. 

Could  those  stern  lion-hearted  men 
Awake  to  life  in  this,  our  day, 

And  view  the  progress  there  has  been 
Within  the  present  century 

O,  who  could  fathom  their  surprise  ? 

The  march  of  the  industrial  arts 
Might  well  confound  those  sages  wise 

And  give  us  grateful,  thankful  hearts. 

How  would  they  view  the  clattering  car 
That  sweeps  our  prairies  of  their  spoil, 

And  gathers  in  from  near  and  far 
The  golden  products  of  the  soil  ? 

Or  him,  who  through  his  fields  of  maize, 
Beneath  his  canopy  of  state, 

Defies  the  sultry  summer  days 

From  early  morn  'till  evening  late  ? 


LABOR. 

We  call  these  days  of  progress  rare — 

The  age  of  lightning  and  of  steam  ; 
No  other  era  can  compare 

With  this,  the  present,  it  would  seem. 
But  are  we  happier  in  our  day 

Than  were  our  ancestors  of  yore? 
And  does  our  own  prosperity 

Excel  our  fathers,  gone  before  ? 

The  old,  old  story  of  the  "fall," 

An  act  that  thwarted  God's  intention 
Seems  hardly  probable  at  all, 

But  very  much  like  man's  invention- 
Some  one  who  had  a  wholesome  fear 

To  earn  his  bread  by  honest  labor — 
Would  like  to  live  from  year  to  year 

Upon  the  products  of  his  neighbor. 

"  Irreverent !"  I  think  you  said. 

"  'Tis  sin  to  doubt  one  jot  or  tittle." 
Am  I  to  blame  to  snap  a  thread 

That  seems  so  very,  very  brittle? 
1 


LABOR.  9 

The  laws  of  God  and  nature  here, 

Are  laws  of  labor,  laws  of  action  ; 
The  earth  revolves  from  vear  to  year, 

»/  • 

Nor  deviates  a  single  fraction. 

And  worlds  on  worlds  that  swing  in  space 

Are  moving  in  their  orbits  ever, 
Each  in  its  well  appointed  place, 

Goes  on,  and  on,  and  ceases  never. 

The  fountain  from  the  mountain's  side, 
Sings  on  rejoicing  in  its  motion  ; 

The  river,  with  majestic  tide, 

Kolls  on  to  join  the  mighty  ocean. 

The  ocean  with  its  ceasless  waves, 

Oft  'gainst  its  rugged  shores  is  dashing, 

Or  gently,  lovingly  it  laves, 

Or  roars  among  the  breakers  splashing. 

Action  16'  life—inaction  death, 
Is  written  clear  throughout  creation  ; 

The  very  air  that  fans  our  breath 
Is  purified  by  agitation. 


10  LABOR. 

Shall  man,  the  choicest  of  God's  hand, 
Of  all  his  works  the  richest  treasure, 

In  his  own  image  nobly  planned, 
Live  but  a  life  of  idle  pleasure? 

No,  rather  let  mankind  rejoice 

That  they  have  faults  and  frailties  human  ; 
The  freedom  and  the  gift  of  choice , 

And  hopes  and  sympathies  in  common. 

Then  let  us  labor  for  our  weal, 
To  idleness  there  is  no  trusting — 

The  brightest  and  most  polished  steel, 
When  not  in  use,  is  prone  to  rusting. 

Shrink  not  the  duties  of  to-day, 

Nor  stop  to  care  and  sorrows  borrow  ; 

The  sun  that  lights  our  present  way, 
May  be  obscured  in  clouds  to-morrow. 

Then  view  not  labor  as  a  curse, 
But  a  rich  blessing  kindly  given; 

The  order  of  the  universe — 
The  grand  economy  of  heaven. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


LONG  years  ago  I  had  a  dear  young  friend ; 
Frank  in  his  manners,  noble  in  his  mind ; 
Sweet  temper  and  bright  virtues  seemed  to  blend, 
To  grace  his  person,  cultured  and  refined. 

Boyant  his  hopes,  though  fortune  had  not  smiled, 
And  strewn  with  flowers  the  pathway  of  his  youth ; 

Hard  toiling  on,  the  weary  hours  beguiled 
In  visions  bright  of  virtue  and  of  truth. 

Nature  more  generous  than  the  "  fickle  maid," 
Endowed  his  mind  as  only  Nature  can ; 

And  science,  noble  science  lent  its  aid 
To  finish  what  kind  Nature  thus  began. 


P2  IN  MEMORIUM. 

To  make  life  useful  was  his  end  and  aim  ; 

Most  faithfully  he  conned  the  healing  art  ; 
He  sought  no  easy  flight  to  gilded  fame, 

But  wrought  right  manfully  to  act  his  part. 

Thus  years  flew  on — he  won  a  fair  success 
In  his  profession  ;  but  there  came  a  change 

Wealth  came  but  slowly — I  could  only  guess 

What  wro't  that  change,  so  sudden  and  so  strange. 

One  clay  I  asked  him  why  this  strange  unrest 
In  one  who  seemed  well  fitted  to  enjoy 

The  sweets  of  life — whom  circumstances  blest 
With  much  to  comfort,  nothing  to  aiioy  ? 

He  answered  thus :  "  I've  learned  this  potent  truth 
The  world  pays  tribute  only  unto  wealth ; 

And  thus  a  gilded  passport  grants,  forsooth  ; 
Other  approaches  are  but  counted  stealth. 

I'll  seek  this  magic  passport  to  the  great — 

I'll  seek  the  land  that  yields  the  glittering  spoil, 

I'll  work  till  wayward  and  reluctant  Fate 
Shall  yield  her  tribute  to  my  patient  toil. 


IX  MEMORIUM.  13 

I'll  drop  the  years  that  link  the  social  chain, 

And  yield  to  Mammon  what  the  world  demands, 

And  when  I  seek  to  rivet  it  again, 

It  shall  be  firmly  clasped  with  golden  bands." 

He  sailed  ;  but  when  he  reached  the  "Golden  Gate," 
The  pale  "Death  Rider"  claimed  him  as  his  own  ; 

Afflicted  friends  lament  his  mournful  fate — 
The  broad  Pacific  lulls  him  with  her  moan. 

He  sleeps  in  peace  in  San  Francisco's  soil, 
Far  from  his  kindred  and  his  native  land ; 

The  world's  ambition,  its  delusive  spoil, 

No  more  shall  bind  him  with  seductive  band, 

I  often  ask  if  this  shall  be  the  end 

Of  this  young  life,  to  memory  so  dear — 

And  shall  we  never  meet  our  early  friend 

To  know  and  love  him  as  we  knew  him  here  ? 


SUGARING  TIME. 


WHEN  boisterous  March  winds  ceased  to  blow, 
When  Sol  shone  down  with  kindlier  glow, 
And  fences  peered  above  the  snow 

In  the  New  England  clime, 
Then  swelled  the  heart  of  every  boy  ; 
He  welcomed  back  again  with  joy 
The  annual  sugaring  time. 

Down  came  the  snow-shoes  from  the  shed  : 
Equipped  with  ample  hunter  sled, 
Forth  over  three  feet  snow  he  sped, 

With  proud  and  measured  tramp  ; 
Well  armed  with  crossbow,  ax  and  gun, 
For  labor  interspersed  with  fun, 
At  the  old  sugaring  camp! 


SUGARING  TIME.  1  O 

Fanned  by  the  exhilarating  breeze, 
With  squirrels  chattering  in  the  trees, 
No  monarch  'mid  his  wealth  and  ease, 

Knows  such  ecstatic  joys 
As  'mong  those  forest  monarchs  stout 
Rung  clear  arid  high  the  happy  shout 
Of  those  New  England  boys, 

When  night  had  wrapped  her  shadows  round 
The  grand  old  forest,  and  no  sound 
Disturbed  the  stillness  most  profound — 

With  camp-fire  blazing  bright, 
And  bubbling  cauldron  seething  hot, 
Seemed  peopled  each  misterious  spot 
With  wizzard,  fiend  or  sprite. 

When  spring  advancing  on  apace, 
And  Nature  donned  a  smiling  face, 
Then  on  the  hill-side  you  might  trace, 

Where  rivulets  had  slumbered, 
Now  wakened  from  their  winter  dreams, 
Leapt  forth  the  emanciapted  streams 
In  rills  from  springs  unnumbered. 


16  SUGARING  TIME. 

And  then  was  heard  the  wild  bee's  hum, 
The  whirring  partridge's  muffled  drum, 
And  to  his  favorite  haunts  would  come, 

Our  old  familiar  friend 
The  robin ;  from  his  mellow  throat 
Proclaiming  in  melodious  note 
The  "  sugaring"  near  its  end. 

Then  youth  and  beauty  oft  would  meet 
With  wit  and  rapartee  to  greet, 
And  taste  the  accumulated  sweet ; 

Those  rustic  girls  and  boys, 
Fresh  with  the  glow  of  sparkling  health, 
No  worldly  honor,  pride  of  wealth, 
Could  match  their  simple  joys. 

I  like  to  view  them  now  as  then — 
Not  as  grave  matrons,  bearded  men — 
And  live  those  old  scenes -o'er  again 

As  in  our  youthful  prime, 
And  hear  their  careless  laughter  ring 
As  when  of  yore  we  met  in  -spring, — 
The  dear  old  sugaring  time ! 
Galesville,  Wis.,  March  15, 1877- 


THE  WOODMAN'S  DAUGHTER. 


LITTLE  ell— just  herself- 
Was  the  woodman's  daughter 
Eyes  so  blue,  loving,  true,, 
Everybody  thought  her 
Such  a  charming  little  maid, 
Living  in  the  wood-land  glade. 

Had  she  wit  ?  not  a  bit ; 

But  it  was  her  beauty 
Made  each  lad  nearly  mad, 

Calling  him  from  duty, 
Oft  to  worship  her  sweet  face, 
And  her  ways  of  winning  grace. 


18  THE  WOODMAN'S  DAUGHTER. 

In  the  spring  she  would  sing 
As  the  birds  had  taught  her, 

While  before  her  father's  door 
Danced  the -crystal  water  : 

Where  the  speckled  troutlets  played, 

Slyly  watched  the  little  maid. 

.  •? 

Strayed  her  feet  in  wild  retreat 
To  pluck  the  crimson  cherries, 

Or  softly  cross  the  yielding  moss, 
Where  grew  the  check erberries  ; 

And  many  a  charming  path  she  knew 

Where  trillium  white  and  purple  grew. 

In  the  wood,  oft  she  stood 

To  view  the  squirrel's  gambols: 

Spent  blissful  hours  in  culling1  flowers 
Amid  her  rural  rambles  ; 

And  thus  she  grew  to  womanhood 

Artless,  beautiful  and  good. 


THE  WOODMAN'S  DAUGHTER.  19 

Alackaday  !  time  speeds  away  ! 

This  maid's  no  more  a  beauty, 
But  hale  and  stout  she  moves  about 

Respondent  to  life's  duty, 
The  mother  of  five  sturdy  boys 
That  vex  her  with  their  boisterous  noise. 

January,   KS78. 


THAT  COUNCIL  OF  CORK. 


w 


HEX  a  boy,  U.  S.  Grant  learned  the  currier's 
trade. 

To  guard  against  want  and  to  serve  him  in  need, 
He  faithfully  studied  how  leather  was  made ; 

"  Useful  labor  is  honorable," — this  was  his  creed. 

When  later,  our  nation  in  peril  was  placed, 

And  the  best  in  the   country  were  called  to  the 
field; 

When  defeat  and  disaster  fast  followed  apace, 
U.  S.  Grant  was  the  General  never  to  yield. 

V 

Thus  the  back  of  Rebellion  was  broken  in  twain, 

The  Union  restored,  and  our  country  was  saved  ; 
While  Peace,  gentle  Peace  came  to  bless  us  again, 

And    Liberty    reigned    where    the  blacks    were 
enslaved. 


THAT  COUNCIL  OF  CORK.  21 

Then  the  voice  of  the  nation  arose  for  the  man 

Who  had  served  in    our    peril    and    saved    from 
defeat. : 

And  they  said ;  "  He  who  led  us  in  victory's  van 
To  serve  us  in  peace,  it  is  every  way  meet." 

And  they  placed  him    by    vote  in    the   president's 
chair. 

And  he  served  them  so  well  that  they  chose    him 

again, 

And  many  there  were  who  were  free  to  declare 
That  he  honored  the  place,  and  ought  to    remain. 

When  free  from  his  duties  he  traveled  abroad, 

He  was   welcomed    and   honored    by   all    of  the 
nations ; 

France,  England  and  Scotland  were  ready  to  laud, 
To  feast  and  to  greet  him  with  hearty  ovations 

And  lately  at  Dublin  tho  warm  Irish  heart 
Gave  the  greeting  most  kindly  of  any,  as  yet ; 

And  the  Gen'ral  still  lingered,  unwilling  to  part 
With  a  people  so  kind,  with  a  sort  nf  regret. 


22  THAT  COUNCIL  OF  CORK. 

But  the  Council  of  Cork  flew  up  with  a  pop  : — 

"  We  will  not  receive  anti- catholic  Grant, 
And  if  the  ex-President's  thinking  to  stop, 

We're  the  boys   that  are    ready   to   say  that  he 
sha'nt !" 

The  Gen'ral  had  listned  to  bursting  of  bomb, 

And    smiling,  remarked :    "  It     seems     a     great 

mystery, 
(As  he  rolled  his  cigar  'twixt  his  finger  and  thumb) 

"  These  Cork    folks   should  know  so   little     of 
history." 

Since,  in  all  his  travels  he  found  none  so  wise 
As  the  Council  of  Cork,  the  question  is  whether 

It  might  not  be  well  some  plan  to  devise, 

To  Grant  these  Cork  sages  a  medal  of  leather. 

Galesville,  Jan.  1879. 


SONG  OF  THE  COUNTY  SEAT. 


OH  sad  was  the  day  when  they  took  me  away 
From  my  home  on  the  beautiful  Beaver; 
No  peace  have  I  found,  since  I've  boarded  around — 
O  why  did    they  force  me  to  leave  her. 

They  told  me  sweet  tales  of  Elysian  vales 

That  abound  in  the  land  of  Arcadia, 
Where  I'd  reign  like  a  queen,  in  grandeur  serene, 

And  be  treated  in  style  like  a  lady. 

Well,  I  staid  there  a  vear,  and    vou    mav    think    it 

c  ./  « 

queer, 

They  told  quite  a  different  story — 
It  was  nothing  at  all  compared  with  Whitehall, 
And  would  fade  in  the  light  of  her  glory. 


24  SOXG  OF  THE  COUNTY  SEAT. 

So  they  "  toted"  me  over,  and  made  me  a  home. 

And  treated  me  well,  I  acknowledge  ; 
But  it  seems  not  to  me  like  the  old  home,  you  see, 

With  the  stream,  the  mill  and  the  college. 

But  now  I  am  told  by  the  young  and  the  old, 
It  would  be  a  most  excellent  notion, 

To  make  the  thing  square,  I  must  go  up  to  Blair 
And  keep  up  the  rotary  motion. 

Thus  I  circle  around,  and  hope  to  be  found 
Some  day  to  my  first  love  returning  ; 

For  go  where  I  will,  I  think  of  her  still ; 
My  heart  for  the  old  home  is  yearning. 

[CHORUS.] 
Oh  sad  was  the  day  when  they  took  me  away 

From  my  home  on  the  beautiful  Beaver  ; 
No  peace  have  I  found  since  I've  boarded  around— 

Oh  !  why  did  they  force  me  to  leave  her. 

Octoln;  !H7S. 


A  NEW  ENGLAND  SKETCH. 

Tall  and  stately  was  the  'Squire, 
Broad  of  shoulder,  strong  of  limb, 
Generous  hearted,  quick  to  ire, 
Few  would  care  to  anger  him. 

Little  skilled  in  bookish  lore, 
He  was  not  unknown  to  fame. 

He'd  held  offices  a  score, 

Though  he  scarce  could  write  his  name. 

He  was  law  unto  his  town, 

Quick  to  wrath,  yet  full  of  zeal, 

And  the  way  his  fist  came  down, 
Would  have  split  a  board  of  deal. 


26  THE   COUNTRY    'SQUIRE. 

Not  a  monarch  of  to-day     . 

Rules  with  such  an  iron  will, 
And  with  such  tyranic  sway, 

As  that  'Squire  of  Hayden  Hill. 

Stalwart  sons  and  daughters  three, 
Had  this  potent  country  'Squire  ; 

Comlier  maidens  you'll  ne'er  see, 
Whom  the  country  lads  admire. 

Cora  was  her  father's  pet, 

Tall  and  straight  and  masculine  ; 

And  the  next,  whose  name  was  Bet, 
Had  those  social  charms  that  win 

But  the  sweetest  of  them  all, 
With  her  eyes  of  tender  blue, 

Frail  and  slender,  fair  and  tall. 
Was  the  youngest  daughter  Sue. 

Graceful,  artless  in  her  ways, 
Modest  in  her  speech  and  mien, 

She  was  worthy  of  all  praise — 
Fit  to  rule,  a  rustic  queen. 


THE   COUNTRY    'SQUIRE.  2.7 

At  the  district  spelling  school, 

In  her  native  rural  town, 
With  a  courage  calm  and  cool, 

She  had  "  spelt  the  master  down." 

And  these  triumphs  of  her  youth 

Ne'er  her  vanity  could  reach  ; 
Words  of  modesty  and  truth 

Ever  graced  the  maiden's  speech. 

'Twas  a  pleasant  spring-like  day, 
And  the  sun  was  glowing  warm  ; 

Snow  began  to  melt  away 
From  the  fences  on  the  farm. 

In  the  wood-yard  was  the  'Squire 

With  his  favorite  son  John, 
Chopping  for  the  kitchen  fire, 

Ere  the  busy  time  came  on. 

Coming  up  the  garden  lane, 

Was  a  country  farmer  boy, 
Known  as  little  Tommy  Blane, 

In  old  Deacon  Hart's  employ. 


28  THE   COUNTRY    'SQUIRE. 

Thomas  was  a  nice  young  lad ; 

He  was  clever  at  his  books, 
And  the  country  girls  were  mad 

O'er  his  fascinating  looks. 

Though  a  little  undersize, 
He  was  graceful  in  his  form, 

And  his  dark  expressive  eyes 
Took  the  ladies  as  by  storm, 

He  had  come  to  ask  the  'Squire 
For  his  charming  daughter  Rue, 

And  to  brave  the  father's  ire, 
For  his  love  was  firm  and  true, 

Motioning  the  'Squire  aside, 
In  an  honest  manly  way, 

Asked  to  win  her  for  his  bride, 
At  some  favored  future  day. 

As  the  silence  that  hath  birth 

When  the  lightning  shaft  hath  sped, 

Ere  the  thunder  shakes  the  earth 
And  the  elements  o'erhead, 


THE   COUNTRY    'SQUIRE.  29 

So  the  silence  came,  forsooth, 

When  the  'Squire,  in  his  surprise, 

Looked  contempt  upon  the  youth 
Through  the  lightning  of  his  eyes. 

And  the  deep'ning  of  his  frown, 
When  in  thunder  tones  he  spoke — 

Thinking  thus  to  crush  him  down, 
As  the  lightning  rends  the  oak. 

"  You  little  silly  Tommy  Blane, 
I  wonder  what  has  tempted  you — 

What  put  it  in  your  foolish  brain 
To  ask  me  for  my  daughter  Sue  ?" 

"  What  can  you  do  to  earn  your  bread  ? 

Much  less  could  you  support  a  wife ! — 
My  John  there's  taller  by  a  head — 

You  are  a  fool,  upon  my  life !" 

"  Now  John  can  '  but'  you  two  to  one, 
And  beat  you  soundly  pitching  hay, 

And  count  it  nothing  more  than  fun 
To  mow  your  heels  off  any  day." 


30  THE    COUNTRY    'SQUIRE. 

Now  Thomas  was  a  modest  lad  ; 

He  listened  calmly  to  the  'Squire ; 
His  lips  were  firm,  he  was  not  mad, 

But  in  his  eye  there  lurked  a  fire ! 

"  I'll  take  your  axe,  and  for  the  rest, 
Upon  yon  log  I'll  try  with  John, 

And  while  we  strive  to  do  our  best, 

You  shall  be  judge,  while  you  look  on." 

Well  pleased  the  'Squire  gave  his  consent 
To  see  the  triumph  of  his  son  ; 

In  place  of  rage  came  calm  content : 
He  viewed  the  victory  as  won. 

And  now  the  axes  gleam  in  air — 
And  now  they  ring  on  solid  wood — 

The  chips  are  flying  everywhere, 

While  the  old  'Squire  astonished  stood. 

Now  Tom  had  deftly  halved  the  but, 
And  turned  to  get  another  start 

While  John  upon  the  second  cut 

Had  not  as  yet,  quite  reached  the  heart. 


THE   COUNTRY    'SQUIRE.  31 

"  Put  in,  you'll  beat  him  on  the  pinch  !" 
He  said  to  John,  but  while  he  spoke, 

John  lacked  a  good  round  solid  inch, 
While  Thomas  gave  the  final  stroke. 

John  wiped  the  sweat  from  off  his  brow, 
Remarking  as  he  bio  wed  his  nose : 

"  You've  beat  me,  Tommy,  anyhow  ; 
I'll  have  to  stand  it,  I  suppose." 

And  Tom  replied  in  modest  speech, 

To  ease  up  John  in  his  defeat : 
"  If  we  had  tried  on  yonder  beech 

I  think  it  likely  you'd  have  beat." 

The  'Squire  aroused  from  his  surprise, 
Was  somewhat  softened  in  his  pride  ; 

For  pluck  and  muscle  in  his  eyes 
Were  more  than  everything  beside. 

"  You've  beat  John  fairly,  I  admit ; 

Your  strength  and  courage  I  admire  ; 
But  though  you  have  the  real  grit, 

You'll  find  you  cannot  beat  the  'Squire." 


32  THE   COUNTRY    'SQUIRE. 

'*  I've  been  here  nearly  forty  year, 

And  hired  strong  fellows,  you  may  bet, 

And  you  may  think  it  very  queer, 
No  one  has  ever  beat  me  yet." 

"  You  take  John's  axe  and  I'll  take  mine, 
And  if  I  do  not  put  you  through, 

Then  my  objections  I'll  resign, 

And  leave  your  question  all  with  Sue." 

In  earnest  now  the  strife  began : 

Love  nerved  the  arm,  love  nerved  the  will — 
Deft  youth  against  the  stout  old  man, 

Whose  mind  was  stubborn  as  the  hill. 

As  blow  on  blow  in  mortal  strife, 

When  sword  meets  sword  or  bavonet  thrust, 

•/ 

When  one  slight  error  costs  a  life, 
And  leaves  a  warrior  in  the  dust, 

So  waged  the  strife  'twixt  age  and  youth  : 
Youth  struck  for  love,  age  struck  for  will ; 

Twere  hard  to  tell  who'd  win,  in  truth, 
As  blows  fell  thicker,  harder  still. 


THE   COUNTRY    'SQUIRE.  33 

Scott  wrote  with  his  immortal  pen  : 

"  Love  rules  the  camp,  the  court,  the  grove," 

An  this  is  now  as  true  as  then  ; 

For  what  shall  conquer  now  but  love  ? 

Amid  the  din  of  sounding  blows, 
Directed  with  such  power  and  skill, 

Tom  drops  his  log,  and  with  it  goes 
The  irate  'Squire  far  down  the  hill. 

Surprised,  astonished  rose  the  'Squire ; 

He  had  not  counted  on  defeat. 
With  sullen  shame  in  place  of  ire, 

He  made  a  silent,  slow  retreat. 

He  slyly  glanced  to  take  a  view 
Just  as  he  passed  the  garden  wall ; 

There  stood  his  saucy  daughter  Sue, 
The  rougish  girl  had  seen  it  all. 

The  years  flew  by,  the  'Squire  was  gray. 
His  haughty  spirit  was  subdued  ; 

A  kind  of  calm  philosophy 

Replaced  his  former  temper  rude. 


34  THE   COUNTRY   'SQUIRE. 

He  sits  beside  the  kitchen  fire, 
Half  dreaming  in  his  easy  chair ; 

A  beaming  smile  comes  o'er  the  'Squire, 
For  happy  matron,  Sue  is  there. 

And  little  Sue  that  looks  like  Tom, 
And  little  Tom  that  looks  like  Sue — 

The  pattering  feet,  that  go  and  come, 
Seem  pleasing  to  the  old  man's  view. 


G3 



STANZAS. 

LAD  is  Spring 
When  the  earth  rejoices, 
Freed  from  the  bondage  of  dreary  Winter's  reign  ; 
When  the  air  resoundeth  with  the  happy  voices, 
Welcoming  back  the  blissful  time  again. 
Glad  is  Spring. 

Sad  is  Spring, 
When  the  greensward  hideth 

All  our  soul  hath  cherished,  in  this  "  vale  below," 
In  the  heart  once  joyous,  sorrow  now  abideth, 
Painful  the  memory  of  the  cherished  long  ago. 
Sad  is  Spring. 


36  STANZAS. 

Glad  is  Spring, 
When  the  birds  are  singing, 

And   all  Nature's  pulses  with  quickened    blood 

are  rife, 
Soft  and  balmy  breezes,  odors  sweet  are  bringing ; 

And  we  thank  the  Giverfor  the  luxury  of  life. 
Glad  is  Spring. 

Sad  is  Spring 
When  our  earthly  pleasures 

Cloy,  and  the  night  comes  to  shroud  our  happy 

>  day  ; 

Early  friends  departed,  gone  our  dearest  treasures — 
Somber  shadows  gather  o'er  life's  future  way.   . .  r, 
Sad  is  Spring. 

Glad  is  Spring 
When  the  hopeful  farmer, 

Trusting    faithful    Nature,    "  scatters    wide    the 

grain  ;" 
Trusting  in  the  promise  that  the  Autum's  garner 

Shall  return  the  tribute  many-fold  again. 
Glad  is  Spring. 

Galescille,  April  "23d,  1878. 


AUGUST. 

LATEST  of  the  daughters  three, 
Reigning  o'er  the  summer-time, 
Who  shall  touch  a  note  to  thee, 
Seldom  praised  in  poet's  rhyme? 

Sober  matron  of  the  year, 

Gone  the  freshness  from  thy  face, 
Care-lines  on  thy  brow  appear  ; 

Yet  thou  hast  a  quiet  grace- — 

Genial,  kind  benevolence  ; 

Doing  good  that  it  mayr  bring 
Happiness,  without  pretence — 

Free  from  noisy  trumpeting. 


38  AUGUST. 

Quiet,  dreamy  August  days  ! 

Plenty  in  the  fields  abound — 
Sweet  the  bloom  of  tasseled  maize, 

Air  is  filled  with  insect  sound. 

Sharp  the  rasping  locust's  notes — 
Clear  the  whistle  of  the  quail ; 

While  a  smoky  vapor  floats, 
Half  obscuring  hill  and  vale. 

August  1878. 


HARVEST  MOON. 


SWEET  harvest  moon,  so  pure  and  bright, 
That  swingeth  in  the  azure  sphere  ; 
How  kindly  falls  thy  placid  light, 

The  toiling  husbandman  to  cheer  ; 
To  guide  him  on  his  weary  way, 
When  sinks  the  burning  orb  of  day. 

How  grateful  falls  the  evening  dew 
'Mid  cheerful  chirp  of  cricket's  note  ; 

The  distant  landscape  to  our  view 
Seems  in  the  fairy  mist  to  float ; 

While  Nature  sleepeth  calm  and  still 

On  prairie  and  on  distant  hill. 


40  HARVEST    MOOX. 

O,  harvest  moon,  in  thy  pure  sphere, 
The  poet's  theme,  the  farmer's  trust — 

That  shineth  on  from  \;ear  to  year 
While  nations  crumble  into  dust  ;— 

That  in  etherial  orbit  swung 

Ere  Homer  wrote,  or  Virgil  sung — 

That  shed  thy  rays  on  Beauty's  brow, 
When  first  they  shown  in  Eden  fair ; 

Thou  shineth  down  as  kindly  now, 
As  erst  on  the  primeval  pair; 

Or  when  the  glorious  boon  of  light 

Came  from  the  dark.cha.otic  night ! 

August  2d,  187S)._ 


OCTOBER. 

THE  forest  leaves  are  sere  and  brown, 
And  scattered  by  the  passing  breeze, 
They  fall  in  drifting  eddies  down 

To  form  a  carpet  'neath  the  trees; 
Or,  floating  downward  on  the  streams, 
They  pass  away  like  youthful  dreams. 

The  birds  have  ceased  their  summer  songs 
And  pluming  for  their  Southern  flight, 

In  field  and  wood,  a  solemn  throng, 
They  linger  but  to  say  "  Good  night," 

Ere  they  shall  spread  their  buoyant  wings 

To  wake  their  songs  in  new  born  springs. 


42  OCTOBER. 

Bright,  peaceful,  dreamy  Autumn  days, 
That  erst  inspired  the  poet's  pen — 

When  down  the  vale  the  smoky  haze 
Obscures  the  landscape  from  our  ken, 

Like  mystic  curtain  that  doth  hide 

Our  vision  from  the  other  side. 

So  when  life's  sun  is  nearly  set, 

Fast  moving  down  the  western  slope, 

In  joyous  smiles  we  linger  yet, 

Inspired  by  Faith,  buoyed  up  by  Hope. 

We  stand  upon  the  earthly  shore, 
And  cheerful  wait  the  passage  o'er. 

October  15,  1878. 


NOVEMBER 


BRIGHT  Autumn  tints  are  fading  into  brown, 
The  brave  blue  gentian   droops  its  beauteous 

head ; 
The  withered  leaves  to  every  blast  come  down, 

And  leaden  clouds  the  wintry  skies  o'erspread. 

Autumn  seems  sad,  and  lingers  with  a  tear. 

Half  frozen  on  her  cheek,  to  say  farewell, 
And  o'er  her  shoulder  views  stern  Winter  drear 

Coming  apace  to  ply  his  icy  spell. 

Thus  in  our  lives,  far  down  the  western  slope 

We  tearfully  look  back  to  bid  adieu 
To  all  we  love,  poised  oft  'twixt  fear  and  hope, 

With  Time,  relentless  Time  fore'er  in  view. 


WINTER  SOXG. 


HARK,  the  blast  sweeping  past 
O'er  the  trackless  prairie ; 
Cold  and  bleak,  hear  it  shriek 
Cheerless  wild  and  dreary  ; 
Down  the  chimney  hear  it  roar, 
Through  each  crevice  sifting 
Snow  and  sleet ;    against  the  door 
Mammoth  piles  are  drifting. 

While  without  hoarse  the  shout 

Of  the  Borean  battle, 
Sharp  to  pierce,  wild  and  fierce, 

Making  windows  rattle — 
'Round  the  hearth-fire's  ruddy  blaze 

Let  us  wake  the  cheerful  strain, 
Sing  the  song  of  other  days, 

Bring  the  old  time  back  again. 


WINTER    SONG.  45 

Through  the  rifts  on  the  drifts 

Clear  the  stars  are  shining, 
And  the  cloud  like  sombre  shroud 

Shows  its  "  silver  lining  ;" — 
May  our  hearts  be  pure  as  they 

In  their  sparkling  brightness, 
Yet  as  warm  as  summer  daf — 

Blissful  in  their  lightness. 

Jan.  1879. 


1879. 


GONE  !  buried  with  thy  kindred  of  the  past  ! 
How  brief  thy  stay  !  yet  grasping  in  thy  span 
The  varied  seasons  since  thy  reign  began, 

First,  Winter,  with  his  storms  and  Borean  blast 
Howled  round  our  dwellings,  sweeping  fiercely  past, 

Turning  our  thoughts  within  to  social  joys  — 
Domestic  pleasures  free  from  base  alloys. 

Then  brought  us  hopeful  spring  with  beauteous 

flowers 
And  genial  summer  with  its  sun  and  showers 

And  bounteous  autumn  with  its  fruits  and  grain. 
Thy  mission  ended  and  thy  work  well  done, 

Thou  liest  down  to  quiet  rest  again, 
As  have  thy  predecessors,  one  by  one, 

To  dreamless  slumbers  as  the  world  moves  on. 


1880. 

JOYOUS  we  hail  thee,  glorious  new-born  year ! 
While  standing  o'er  the  coffin  of  the  past, 
We  welcome  thee,  yet  "  smiling  through  a  tear ;" 

For  well  it  is  that  sorrow  cannot  last 
Whils't  thou  dost  show  thy  youthful  presence  here, 

And  rays  of  sunlight  o'er  the  shadows  cast. 
Gay  Youth  is  gayer  for  thy  cheering  smiles, 

And  Age  is  hopeful  in  thy  sparkling  glance  ; 
For  buoyant  Hope  the  present  hour  beguiles, 

And  sounds  the  bugle-call, — the  world's  advance. 
Then  hopeful  on,  what  e'er  shall  be  our  fate ; 

The  sluggard  greeteth  not  the  morning  sun — 
The  laggard  shall  lament  when  'tis  too  late, 

While  Industry  the  golden  prize  hath  won. 

Galcsvillc,  Jan.  \st. 


EARLY  FRIENDS. 


SCATTERED  how  widely  on  life's  devious  way! 
Some  gone  to  rest  in  budding  youth's  fresh  years, 
Others  in  manhood's  bright  meridian  day; 
Yet,  happily,  so  few  have  gone  estray, 

The  source  of  sharp  regrets  and  hopeless  tears. 

Some  toiling  on  for  wealth  or  honored  name, 
Intent  on  present  happiness,  or  future  fame  ; 
Others  content  to  pass  an  aimless  life, 
Devoid  of  pleasures,  unalloyed  with  strife. 
Here  youthful  genius,  in  a  lonely  spot, 
Sleeps  on  unnoticed,  by  the  world  forgot ; 
There  glorious  life-work,  like  the  golden  sun, 
Went  down  in  splendor  when  its  task  was  done. 
Some  sleep  at  home  beneath  the  household  tree, 
Others  in  foreign  land  or  distant  sea : — 
All  scattered,  gone,  or  passing  one  by  one. 

6 


THE  MEADOW  LAEK. 


BIRD  of  the  cheerful  strain, 
Back  to  thy  haunts  again, 
Joyious  thy  greeting ; 
Scarcely  a  year  ago, 
When  fled  the  winter  snow, 
Here  was  our  meeting. 

March  with  her  chilling  blast, 
Swept  o'er  the  Prairie  past 

Cheerless  and  dreary  ; 
Yet  from  thy  mellow  throat, 
Came  the  inspiring  note, 

Clear-toned  and  cheery. 


50  THE    MEADOW    LARK. 

Close  to  our  mother  earth, 
Had'st  thou  thy  lowly  birth, 

On  the  broad  prairie  ; 
There  in  thy  humble  nest, 
Warmed  by  maternal  breast, 

Watchful  and  wary, 

Reared  with  most  tender  care 
Taught  erst  to  mount  the  air 

With  thy  young  pinions — - 
Singing  while  summer  lasts, 
Seeking  with  autumn's  blasts, 

Warmer  dominions. 

Dost  to  the  race  belong 
Far-famed  in  poet's  song, 

Over  the  ocean  ? 
Or  is  thy  mission  here, 
Sad  hearts  and  lone  to  cheer 

With  thy  devotion  ? 


THE   MEADOW    LARK.  51 


Bird  of  the  cheerful  strain, 
Back  to  thy  haunts  again, 

Joyful  we  greet  thee ; 
Long  seemed  the  winter  day, 
Sadly  it  passed  away 

Ere  we  could  meet  thee. 

March  5th  1878. 


WHO  CAN  TELL? 


QPARKLIXG,  joyous  little  miss, 
^-J  Golden  hair  and  eyes  of  blue, 
Lips  inviting  mother's  kiss, 

All  the  world  is  bright  to  you. 
Shall  no  darkening  shadows  fall 

On  your  future,  little  maid  ? 
Will  your  pleasures  never  pall, 

And  your  blooming  cheek  ne'er  fade  ? 
WTho  can  tell  ? 


WHO    CAN    TELL?  53 

To  your  young  and  artless  view 

All  is  beauteous  and  fair  ; 
Friends  most  loving,  kind  and  true 

Greet  your  presence  everywhere. 
In  this  world  of  grief  and  joy, 

Will  the  sunlight  always  shine  ? 
Will  your  pleasures  never  cloy  ? 

Constant  happiness  be  thine  ? 
Who  can  tell  ? 

Life  hath  sorrows,  life  hath  care — 

Life  hath  duties,  hard  and  stern — 
Life  hath  burdens,  great  to  bear — 

Life  hath  lessons  all  must  learn. 
In  life's  contest  only  few 

Reach  the  goal  and  win  the  prize  ; 
Will  thy  courage  bear  thee  through 

O'er  the  obstacles  that  rise  ? 
Who  can  tell  ? 

Wisconsin.  1879. 


SING  THE  OLD-TIME  SONG. 


SING  us  the  old-time  song 
As  oft  we  sung  it  of  yore, 
While  by  the  hearth-fire  sat  the  throng 
That  ne'er  shall  sit  there  more. 

Sweet  and  sad  the  strain, 

Echoes  of  the  long  ago ; 
Something  of  pleasure,  something  of  pain, 

In  those  old  strains  flow. 

«> 

For  visions  sad  and  sweet 

They  bring  unto  our  view  ; 
Of  faces  dear  no  more  we  meet — 

The  loving,  kind  and  true. 


SING   THE   OLD-TIME   SONG.  55 

The  mountain  in  its  pride, 

The  verdant  fir  clad  hill, 
The  sparkling  streams  that  onward  glide — 

We  seem  to  see  them  still. 

The  flowers  that  bloomed  in  spring 

By  wood  and  winding  stream  ; 
Sweet  notes  of  birds  that  used  to  sing — 

All  mingle  in  our  dream. 

And  as  the  years  depart, 

And  age  comes  on  apace, 
We  clasp  these  visions  to  our  heart 

That  time  cannot  efface. 

Then  sing  the  old-time  song 

In  cadence  soft  and  low, 
Till  memories  of  the  past  shall  throng 

The  cherished  long  ago. 

January  1879. 


SING  WHILE  YOU  MAY. 


SING  while  you  may,  ere  care  or  sorrow 
Cometh  unbidden,  cometh  unsought ; 
Sing,  sing  to-day,  lest  the  to-morrow 

May  be  with  anguish  and  misery  fraught. 

Sing  while  you  may ;  youth  in  its  brightness 
Passeth  away  as  the  flowers  of  spring  ; 

Laugh,  laugh  to-day,  in  your  heart's  lightness 
Careless  as  birds  in  their  happiness  sing. 

Work   while  you  may  ;  life  is  but  fleeting, 
Time  is  too  short  for  our  labor  on  earth : — 

Forward  to-day  never  retreating — 

Life  hath  its  duties  as  well  as  its  mirth. 

Sing  while  you  may ;  age  hath  its  pleasures 
When  we  look  back  o'er  a  virtuous  life, 

Joyfully  viewing  the  bright,  precious  treasures 
Freed  from  the  dress  of  the  world's  busy  strife. 

March  1879. 


AUNT  EHODA. 


MY  maiden  aunt,  of  days  lang  syne — 
Her  goodness  I  can  ne'er  forget ; 
A  heart  so  human  yet  divine, 
Where  all  the  virtues  rare  combine 
On  earth  is  very  seldom  met. 

Her  hair,  once  brown,  was  touched  with  gray  ; 

Her  eyes  were  of  the  mildest  blue, 
Where  holy  light  seemed  wont  to  play, 
While  plodding  on  her  patient  way, 

To  conscience  and  to  duty  true. 


58  AUNT   RHODA. 

Time  touched  her  lightly  as  she  trod 

The  path  of  duty  and  of  toil — 
Fresh  as  the  flowers  that  deck  the  sod 
Her  fervent  prayers  arose  to  God 
Far,  far  above  the  world's  turmoil. 

While  thus  she  sought  in  sweet  commune 
To  ease  the  burden  of  her  task, 

She  hummed  away  from  morn  till  noon 

Some  sacred,  antiquated  tune, 

And  seemed  in  heavenly  rays  to  bask. 

Her  step  was  by  the  sick  one's  bed 

Full  oft  at  midnight's  dreary  hour, 
To  bathe  the  sufferer's  aching  head — 
To  cheer  the  hours  of  pain  and  dread 
By  care  and  sympathetic  power. 

'Twas  hers  to  weep  with  those  who  weep-- 
'Twas  hers  to  joy  with  those  who  joy — 
To  aid  along  earth's  rugged  steep, 
Efface  the  lines  of  care  that  creep, 
And  free  from  life,  its  base  alloy. 


AUNT    RHODA.  59 

And  thus  she  lived  to  ripened  years 

A  self-denying,  useful  life  ; — 
Wiping  from  sorrow's  cheek  the  tears — 
Renewing  hopes  and  calming  fears, 
She  passed  beyond  the  world  of  strife. 

Aunt  Rhoda !  (dear  old-fashioned  name,) 

Thy  life  so  simple  yet  sublime, 
Was  more  than  sermon,  though  it  came 
From  lips  of  eloquence  and  flame  : 
Thy  deeds  shall  lasting  be  as  time ! 

February  \st,  1879. 


THE  MOUNTAIN  STREAM. 


SWEET  mountain  stream,  to  memory  dear, 
Still  dancing  on  thy  sparkling  way, 
Thy  song  that  pleased  my  youthful  ear, 
Seems  just  as  fresh  to  me  to-day. 

Though  long  and  weary  miles  divide., 
And  hill  and  prairie  stretch  between, 

I  seem  to  listen  to  thy  tide, 

And  view  again  thy  silver  sheen. 

With  friends  beside  me  as  of  yore, 
'Neath  peerless  moon  and  star-lit  sky, 

I  sit  upon  thy  lovely  shore, 
And  listen  to  thy  lullaby. 


THE    MOUNTAIN    STREAM.  61 

I  stand  as  then  beside  thy  fount, 

And  feel  the  same  ecstatic  joy — 
The  inspiration  that  was  wont 

To  stir  my  being  when  a  boy : 

Or  follow  down  thy  winding  shore, 

Through  forest  dark  and  opening  glade — 

Still  listen  to  thy  mystic  roar 

While  dashing  oft  in  wild  cascade. 

The  yielding  moss  beneath  my  tread — 
The  fragrance  of  the  forest  trees, 

With  woven  canopy  o'erhead 

That  bars  the  sunlight  and  the  breeze. 

And  farther  on  where  human  skill 
Has  fashioned  nature  to  man's  use, 

Subdued  the  forest  to  his  will — 
Made  the  rude  wilderness  produce 

Its  treasures  for  his  daily  need, 
Thou  too,  dost  seem  to  be  subdued. 

And  murmur  on  with  lessened  speed, 
Freed  from  the  mountain  solitude. 


62  THE  MOUNTAIN    STREAM. 

Now  through  the  vale,  and  now  by  hill, 
O'er  pebbly  bed  thy  waters  glide  ; 

Thy  course  is  onward,  onward  still, 
With  cheerful  song  and  silvery  tide. 

Ah,  happy  days,  how  fleetly  sped ! 

Gone  !  vanished  to  return  no  more  ; 
The  dearest  friends  of  earth  are  dead, 

And  dreamless  slumber  on  thy  shore. 

Flow  gently  on,  Oh  mountain  stream  ! 

By  willowed  banks  through  meadows  green  ; 
Thy  vision  haunts  me  like  a  dream, 

Forever  'mid  life's  shifting  scene  ! 

Gahsiille,  March  1880, 


IN  MEMORY  OF  ALEX.  McGILVRAY. 


LATE    PRESIDENT    OF    THE    BURNS    CLUB. 


Read  at  the  Celebration  of  Burns1  Anniversary,  Jan.  25,  1879. 

ONE  place  is  vacant  in  our  band, 
We  miss  the  pressure  of  his  hand 
Whose  grasp  was  hearty  and  sincere  ; 
We  miss  the  face  so  bright  with  cheer, 
The  presence,  like  the  summer  rays 
That  come  to  gladden  winter  days. 
We  hear  no  more  the  piper's  strain 
That  bringeth  to  our  view  again 
The  dear  old  land  beyond  the  sea, 
That  liveth  in  our  memory. 


64  IN    MEMORY    OF    ALEX.    MCGILVRAY. 

Stilled  is  the  hand  that  touched  the  cord- 
Hushed  is  the  voice  of  cheery  word  ; 
Yet,  though  his  person  is  not  here, 
And  though  we  miss  his  words  of  cheer, 

Perchance  his  spirit  lingers  near, 
And  now,  as  in  the  past,  it  yearns 
To  honor  the  immortal  Burns, 
Who  touched  with  such  an  artless  art 
The  well-springs  of  the  human  heart. 

And  may  not  we,  in  sweet  commune, 
While  memory  sets  our  hearts  atune, 
And  fancy  comes  her  charms  to  lend, 
Greet  here  to-night,  our  dear  old  friend  ? 
Still  listen  to  his  Highland  note, 
That  seemeth  down  the  hall  to  float ; — 
Still  listen  to  his  words  of  cheer, 
And  feel  his  presence  with  us  here  ? 


8 


HOW  SHALL  IT  BE? 


THERE'S  much  been  written  and  said,  we  hear, 
Of  those  whose  deeds  are  evil — 
And  the  question  is  asked,  have  they  aught  to  fear 
From  a  hell  and  a  personal  devil  ? 

Where  a  lake  of  brimstone,  seething  hot, 

Is  bubbling  on  forever  ; 
Where  the  worm  that  gnaweth,  dieth  not, 

And  ceases  his  tortures  never  ? 

Where  he  of  the  horns  and  the  barb-ed  tail 

With  features  grim  and  horrid, 
Shall  grin  with  joy  at  the  human  wail 

In  those  regions  dark  and  torrid  ? 


66  HOW    SHALL    IT    BE? 

Can  we  think  that  an  infinite  God  of  love, 
From  his  high  and  holy  station, 

Shall  look  with  joy  from  His  throne  above 
On  the  works  of  His  wise  creation — 

And  view  the  writhings  in  endless  pain, 

And  feel  a  thrill  of  pleasure, 
While  the  songs  of  the  blessed  ring  again 

In  strains  of  endless  measure  ? 

O,  why  should  we  cavil  of  things  unknown, 

Or  question  the  wise  creator? 
The  children  he  fashioned  and  named  his  own 

He  will  call  home,  sooner  or  later. 

The  years  roll  on,  and  the  seasons  bring 
Their  gifts  and  their  bounties  ever  ; 

And  who  so  thankless,  he  cannot  sing 
In  praise  to  the  bountiful  Giver  ? 

The  sun  that  shineth  from  day  to  day, 

The  stars  that  glitter  at  even,  - 
Should  gide  us  safely  along  the  way, 

Till  the  goal  is  reached  in  heaven. 


WHISTLING  ON  THE  SIDEWALK. 

WITH  stern  intent  and  measured  tread, 
She  whistled  as  she  passed  along, 
And  heeded  not  the  gaping  throng 
That  jeered  and  jested  as  she  sped  ; — 
A  pert  young  miss,  scarce  in  her  teens, 
With  air  as  proud  any  queen's. 

O,  maiden,  though  thy  face  be  fair, 
Thy  whistling  was  quite  out  of  tune  ? 
For  while  she  strove  for  "  Bonnie  Doon" 

We  scarcely  recognized  the  air. 
But  such  persistency  ! — we'll  bet 
The  lass  will  make  a  whistler  yet. 


68  WHISTLING    ON    THE   SIDEWALK. 

Now  ye  young  men  who  laugh  and  jeer 
At  this  young  maiden,  pert  and  fair, 
We  caution  you  to  erst  beware ! 

We'll  stake  our  credit  as  a  seer, 
You'll  one  day  want  her  for  a  wife 
To  whistle  joyous  on  through  life. 


THE  INFANT'S  GRAVE. 


BY  our  county's  northern  bound, 
Where  a  winding  stream  is  flowing, 
Gnarled  oaks  are  standing  round, 

And  beneath  the  wild  flowers  blowing. 

Wild  and  lonely  is  the  spot ; 

Wave  on  wave  the  prairie  swelling ; 
Where  the  vision  reaches  not 

Farmer's  cot  or  human  dwelling. 

There  I  saw  a  tiny  grave  ; 

Fresh  the  earth  about  it  lying. 
While  above  the  green  boughs  wave 

In  the  June  breeze  softly  sighing. 


70  THE  INFANT'S  GRAVE. 

Frail  the  board  that  marked  the  bed 
Where  the  little  child  is  sleeping ; 

Birds  were  sieging  overhead, 

And  beneath  the  wild  vines  creeping. 

Here,  the  emigrant  his  tent 

Pitched  beside  the  running  water, 

Buried,  ere  he  onward  went, 
Little  "  Inge  Iversdatter"* 

Short  the  stay  for  mother's  tears, 
Weary  miles  before  them  lying ; 

Life's  stern  duties,  hopes  and  fears 
Left  but  little  time  for  sighing. 

Weeping  as  they  bid  adieu 

To  the  dear  one  left  behind  them, 

Lost  forever  from  their  view- 
Sad  the  memories  that  bind  them. 

Galesville,  1880 

*Inga,  the  daughter  of  leer. 


THE    LITTLE    BROWN    SCHOOL-HOUSE 
BY  THE  STREAM. 


H 


OW  fleeting  seems  the  time, 
Since  in  my  youthful  prime,— 
And  the  memory  now  doth  haunt  me  like  a  dream, 
Of  those  youthful  faces  bright, 
And  eyes  of  sparkling  light, 
In  that  little  brown  school-house  by  the  stream ! 

Sweet  pleasures  of  the  past— 

Too  beautiful  to  last ; 
Too  perfect  to  be  real,  it  would  seem  ; 

The  happiness  and  joys 

Of  those  merry  girls  and  boys, 
In  that  little  brown  school-house  by  the  stream. 


72  THE    SCHOOL-HOUSE    BY   THE   STREAM. 

How  often  do  I  say, 

Where  are  they  all  to-day  ? 
And  my  mind  doth  with  olden  fancies  teem  : 

Can  it  be  that  some  are  gray, 

And  others  passed  away, 
In  that  little  brown  school -house  by  the  stream  ? 

How  can  I  e'er  forget 

The  dear  place  where  we  met, 

And  the  teacher  that  let  in  the  kindly  gleam, 
And  the  sparkling  of  those  eyes, 
As  they  felt  the  new  surprise, 

In  that  little  brown  school-house  by  the  stream  ? 

When  at  life's  busy  task, 

How  often  do  I  ask  : — 
Will  our  hopes  of  the  future  prove  a  dream  ? 

And  shall  we  meet  no  more. 

As  we  met  in  days  of  yore, 
In  that  little  brown  school -house  by  the  stream. 

March,  1880. 


IN  MEMORY  OF  A  FRIEND   WHO  DIED 
AT  SAN  FRANCISCO. 


HE  rests  beside  the  Golden  Gate, 
Far  from  his  home  he  sleeps  alone ; 
His  friends  lament  his  early  fate — 
The  ocean  lulls  him  with  its  moan. 

He  rests  beside  the  Golden  Gate — 
The  dearest  friend  of  early  youth, 

With  heart  so  tender,  soul  so  great, 

Whose  word,  whose  every  act  was  truth. 

Rejoicing  in  his  friends'  success, 

He  shared  their  sorrows  and  their  joys  ; 

His  sympathy  was  theirs  to  bless, 
Stripped  of  the  selfish  world's  alloy  a, 

We  know  our  aged  friends  must  pass 

Bowed  'neath  the  weight  of  ripened  years  ; 

We  miss  their  presence,  but  alas ! 

We  must  submit  and  dry  our  tears. — 


74  IN  MEMORY  OF  A  FRIEND. 

As  when  the  noble  ancient  oak, 
No  longer  beareth  fruit  or  leaf, 

Yields  to  the  hardy  woodman's  stroke, 
And  falleth  like  a  forest  chief. 

But,  when  in  manhood's  glorious  prime, 
With  cultured  mind  and  wealth  of  heart, 

They  pass  beyond  the  "  shores  of  Time," 
Can  we  be  reconciled  to  part  ? 

If  what  we  have  been  taught  be  true, 
We  meet  beyond  this  earthly  sphere, 

No  more  with  friends  to  bid  adieu — 
To  know  them  as  we  knew  them  here, 

Freed  from  earth's  grossness,  pure  and  bright, 
To  see  them  as  ourselves  are  seen, 

And  dwell  forever  in  the  light, 

Once  bounded  by  a  mystic  screen — 

Then  little  reck  we  when  shall  sound 
The  summons  that  shall  call  us  o'er 

To  meet  beyond  the  earthly  bound, 

Our  dear  friends  who  have  "  gone  before." 

Galesville,  March  1879. 


THE  YOUNG  ANGLER. 


FAR  up  the  mountain's  wild  ravine, 
A  sparkling  stream  comes  dashing  down, 
Sings  on  its  rocky  walls  between, 
And  hurries  onward  to  the  town. 

Then  through  green  meadows  takes  its  way, 
In  gentler  mood  and  softer  song, 

Where  speckled  trout  were  wont  to  play, 
In  its  clear  waters  all  day  long. 

How  happy  on  a  balmy  day, 

When  freed  from  toil  or  task  at  school, 
A  rustic  lad  oft  took  his  way 

To  drop  his  hook  within  the  pool. 


76  THE    YOUNG    ANGLER. 

Words  are  too  poor  to  tell  the  joy 

That  stirs  the  soul  and  thrills  the  heart- 

The  sweet  experience  of  the  boy, 
When  first  he  plies  the  angler's  art. 

How  proud,  elastic  was  his  tread  ! 

The  song  of  birds  how  very  sweet ! 
As  down  the  fragrant  mead  he  sped, 

The  yellow  cowslip  'neath  his  feet. 

The  drum  of  partridge  from  the  grove — 
The  willows  o'er  the  water's  brink — 

The  turtle's  cooing  notes  of  love— 
The  medley  of  the  bobolink. 

Now  seated  'neath  a  shady  tree, 
He  careless  trolls  along  the  stream, 

And  listening  to  its  melody 

He  dreams  a  happy  boyhood  dream. 

"  Why  waste  his  life  in  ceasless  toil  ? 

The  joyous  birds  are  free-  as  air  ! 
Why  delve  all  day  the  stubborn  soil, 

With  bounteous  Nature  everywhere  ? 


THE  YOUNG    ANGLER.  77 

"  Why  bend  beneath  the  irksome  task, 
And  sweat  beneath  the  burning  sun  ? 

All  else  is  free,  and  none  to  ask 
Why  this  is  done  or  that  undone. 

"  The  squirrel  in  yon  hemlock  tree, 
That  eats  his  nut  upon  the  limb, 

And  barks  and  chatters  in  his  glee, 
No  hateful  labor  worries  him." 

The  hum  of  bees  is  overhead, 
All  Nature's  harmonies  around  ; 

While  sits  upon  his  mossy  bed 
The  young  philosopher  profound. 


THE  MODERATE  DRINKER'S  SONG. 


U  T  never  drink  to  hurt  me  : 
•*•  Oh  no,  I  only  take 

A  little  wine  when  I'm  unwell, 
Just  for  the  stomach's  sake. 

"  I  never  drink  to  hurt  me  : 
But  then,  it  does  me  good 

To  take  some  bitters  just  before 
I  take  my  daily  food. 

"  I  never  drink  to  hurt  me  : 
But  when  I'm  feeling  chill, 

I  think  some  spirits  very  good, 
Say,  just  about  a  gill. 


THE    MODERATE    DRINKER'S   SOXG.  79 

"  I  never  drink  to  hurt  me  : 

But  when  I'm  very  warm, 
A  little  brandy  toddy  then 

Just  cools  me  to  a  charm. 

"  I  never  drink  to  hurt  me  : 

But  really  we  ought 
To  maintain  the  liberties 

For  which  our  father's  fought. 

"  They  tell  me  that  my  nose  is  red, 

My  hat  is  caving  in, 
And  that  my  whole  appearance  is 

Not  what  it  might  have  been  : 

"  They  say  that  everything  about 

A  shabby  aspect  wears  ; — 
*      My  children  ragged,  and  my  wife 
Is  broken  down  with  cares. 

"  The  other  day  Jake  Simkins  asked 

Me  if  I  wouldn't  sign 
The  temperance  pledge  and  drink  no  more 

Of  rum  or  gin  and  wine : 


80  THE    MODEKATE    DRINKER'S    SONG. 

"  I  tell  you  I  was  awful  mad, 
And  gave  it  back  to  Jake. 

I  said  :  You  darn'd  etarnal  fool, 
There's  principle  at  stake !" 

"  If  there's  not  liberty  for  all 
To  eat  and  drink  at  will, 

Why  then,  in  vain  our  fathers  fought 
And  bled  on  Bunker  Hill !" 


10 


BOYHOOD. 


>*~pHOUGHTFUL  face  and  eyes  of  brown- 

-*-   Hat  of  straw  with  shattered  crown — 
Underneath  the  slouching  rim, 
Scarcely  can  you  peep  at  him. 
Vest  and  trowsers  hardly  meet— 
Sun-browned  hands  and  shoeless  feet, 
And  you  wonder  what  may  be 
In  this  crude  humanity — 
What  of  sorrow,  what  of  joy, 
Stir?  this  rustic  farmer  boy  t 

There  he  stands  upon  the  sod, 
In  his  hands  an  alder  rod 


82  BOYHOOD. 

With  a  bit  of  linen  twine, 
Made  to  serve  him  as  a  line — 
And  a  bent  pin  for  a  hook. 
Now  he  wanders  by  the  brook, 
And  the  minnows  and  the  trout 
Seem  to  know  what  he's  about ; 
Casting  up  a  roguish  look, 
Nibbling  at  his  barbless  hook. 

If  you  ask  him,  he  can  tell 
Where  the  stealthy  muskrats  dwell 
Underneath  the  willowed  bank, 
With  the  mosses  brown  and  dank  ; 
Where  the  ground-bird  builds  her  nest 
Close  beside  the  ferny  crest ; 
Where  the  robin  comes  to  sing, 
In  the  early  days  of  spring ; 
Where  the  oriole,  in  glee, 
Sings  within  the  maple  tree ; 
Chants  her  song  the  livelong  day, 
In  the  lovely  month  of  May  : 


BOYHOOD.  83 

When  the  blue-bird  and  the  wren 
Come  to  rear  their  young  again, 
He  can  show  the  woody  knoll 
Where  the  chipmuck  has  his  hole ; 
And  the  shady  hemlock  glen 
Where  the  red  fox  had  her  den, 
Reared  her  young  and  .stole  their  food 
From  the  farmer's  feathered  brood. 

Thus,  the  little  farmer  boy 
Finds  within  his  breast  the  joy 
That  kind  Xature  always  gives 
Bounteously  to  him  who  lives 
Close  unto  her  heart  of  hearts, 
And  sweet  happiness  imparts. 

Far  removed  from  worldly  strife, 
'Mid  the  sweets  of  rural  life, 
Oft  he  listens  to  the  birds, 
As  he  drives  the  lowing  herds  ; 
Happy,  whistling  as  he  goes 
Whipping  off  the  thistle  blows. 


84  BOYHOOD, 

Listening  to  the  wild  bees'  hum, 
And  the  partridge's  muffled  drum  ; 
To  the  softly  cooing  dove, 
In  her  tender  notes  of  love. 

Every  flow'ret  by  the  way, 
Has  a  pleasant  word  to  say ; 
Every  brooklet  has  its  song, 
Joying  as  it  speeds  along ; 
Every  tiny  blade  of  grass, 
Gives  its  lesson  as  we  pass. ' 

Dear  the  sunlight  and  the  shade- 
Sweet  the  forest  and  the  glade- 
Soft  the  zephyr's  gentle  breeze, 
Sighing  through  the  forest  trees- 
Whispering  through  the  boughs  of  pine, 
Making  harmony  divine. 

Not  all  happiness  and  joy, 
Came  to  bless  the  farmer  boy ; 
When  the  wearying  task  was  set, 
Pushing  on  in  dust  and  sweat, 


BOYHOOD.  85 

Oft  he  wrestled  with  the  soil, 
Sighing  'mid  the  hatefurtoil ; 
Hoed  the  lengthened  rows  of  corn, 
Longing  for  the  dinner  horn. 
Nor,  when  hoeing  season  done, 
Was  there  much  of  boyish  fun 
In  the  hay-field  'neath  the  sun. 

Nor  did  harvest  bring  relief : 
Tugging  at  the  bearded  sheaf- 
Pierced  with  thistles  in  the  grain, 
Oft  he  felt  the  smarting  pain. 
But  where  e'er  our  course  may  tend, 
Human  sorrows  have  an  end. 

When  the  bounteous  Autumn  came 
With  the  crimson  fruit  aflame, 
Happier  than  a  king,  forsooth, 
Was  this  rustic  farmer  youth. 
Sitting  'noath  a  favorite  tree, 
None  were  happier  than  he. 


86  BOYHOOD. 

Luscious  fruit  was  strewn  around 
In  profusion  on  the  ground ; 
And  he,  for  a  time,  forgot 
All  the  hardships  of  his  lot. 

Winter  brought  its  care  and  joy 
To. our  little  farmer  boy. 
Worked  he  briskly  day  and  night 
Toiling  hard  for  the  delight 
Of  those  precious  hours  at  school : 
For  it  was  the  farmer's  rule 
That  the  boy  must  earn  his  way, 
And  forego  his  hours  of  play — 
Not  the  practice  of  our  day. 
Still  it  was  a  discipline, 
Rigid  as  it  might  have  been, 
That  developed  careful  thought. 
Privileges  dearly  bought, 
Are  more  valued  for  their  cost, 
And  less  likely  to  be  lost. 


BOYHOOD.  87 

As  lie  stands  beside  the  brook, 
With  an  earnest,  thoughtful  look, 
Let  us  ponder  what  may  be 
Written  as  his  destiny  : 

Will  he  cultivate  the  soil, 
Spend  his  life  in  ceaseless  toil, 
Rising  with  the  morning  sun, 
Working  till  the  day  is  done ; 
Mixing  not  in  worldly  strife, 
Simple  in  his  ways  of  life  ; 
Tread  the  path  his  father  trod— 
Just  to  man  and  true  to  God  ? 

Will  ambition  fire  his  breast, 
Burning  with  a  wild  unrest, 
Striving  for  a  fadeless  name, 
Seeking  for  the  "  bauble  Fame  ;" 
And  with  potent  voice  or  pen, 
Sway  the  weaker  mass  of  men  ? 
Will  he  seek  the  poet's  bays 
For  the  doubtful  meed  of  praise? 


88  BOYHOOD. 

Will  he  be  a  soldier  brave, 

Marching  where  proud  banners  wave? 

Will  the^politician's  tact, 

Lead  him  to  dishonest  act— 

Or  will  patriotic  fire 

Nobler  thoughts  and  pure  inspire  ; 

Hating  falsehood,  scorning  pelf, 

Loving  Virtue  for  herself; 

Toiling,  that  the  world  may  be 

Strong  in  its  integrity ; 

Living  to  some  purpose  here, 

Fitting  for  a  higher  sphere  ? 

Such  we'd  have  him,  but — Ah,  well ! 

Who  can  of  the  future  tell  ? 

Yet  whatever  be  his  lot, 

Mansion  proud  or  humble  cot, 

In  the  rear  or  in  the  van, 

Mav  he  be  an  honest  man. 


11 


CKOPP. 

HIS  name  was  Cropp — the  neighbors  called  him 
"  Gizzard  ;" 

They  said  he  surely  must  have  lived  on  air ; 
It  would  have  puzzled  any  witch  or  wizzard 
To  make  a  living  on  his  scanty  fare, 

Yet,  strange  to  say,  his  wife  was  fat  and  hearty — 
The  standing  joke  of  all  the  girls  and  boys  ; 

She,  uninvited,  went  to  every  party, 

And  weighed  about  three  hundred  av'dupoise. 

While  he  was  sallow,  wrinkled,  spare  and  bony — 
A  stranger  to  emotions  kind  and  warm ; 

His  callous  heart,  impassionless  and  stony, 
As  were  the  pastures  of  his  mountain  farm. 

And  while  she  dined  abroad,  full  oft  with  neighbors, 
Unwelcome  as  she  was,  where  e'er  she  went, 

He  carried  on  at  home,  his  mental  labors 
In  figuring  up  his  twenty-five  per  cent. 


DO  CROPP. 

A  silent  pair,  they  were,  it  oft  was  stated — 

Economy  of  words,  kind  deeds,  as  well  as  gold — 

In  this  regard  they  were  most  kindly  mated, 
And  spent  their  days  in  reticence,  we're  told. 

One  day  while  darning  up  a  woolen  stocking 
Where  the  great  toe  had  made  a  fearful  rent, 

She  came  to  grief— an  accident  more  shocking 
To  her,  it  seems,  could  hardly  have  been  sent. 

A  darning  needle,  that  from  kindred  many, 
Had  come  to  her  an  heir-loom  of  the  past— 

That  had  come  down  from  granny  unto  granny— 
The  useful  implement  had  failed  at  last. 

And  now  the  silence  that  had  been  unbroken, 
Did  find  its  voice  :  "  What  shall  I  do,"  she  said ; 

"  This  needle  was  to  me  the  choicest  token— 
A  tie  that  bound  the  living  with  the  dead  !" 

"  I'll  tell  you  what,"  he  said,  "  I  go  to-morrow 
To  mill ;  now  woman  don't  you  cry  ; 

You  can  a  needle  of  a  neighbor  borrow, 

I'll  get  the  blacksmith,  L to  weld  the  eye. 


CROPP.  91 

S 

Next  day  at  forge  our  sturdy  son  of  Vulcan, 
Who,  by  the  way,  was  not  a  stupid  dolt ; 

Stood  smirched  with  soot  as  dark  as  Turkey's  Sultan, 
Worthy  to  forge  the  royal  thunderbolt. 

The  glowing  coal  sent  sparks  to  beam  and  rafter, 
When  Cropp  appeared  and  fumbling  at  his  fob, 

"  My  wife,"  he  said,  "  has  met  with  a  disaster, 
And  I  have  brought  you  down  a  little  job." 

He  took  the  broken  needle  from  his  wallet, 
And  paused  a  bit  to  hear  the  smith's  reply  ; 

"  The  end  is  broke, — the  eye,  I  think  they  call  it :" 
There  was  a  twinkle  in  the  blacksmith's  eye. 

Yet  spoke  he  gravely  to  the  miser  patron  : 

"I'll  make  it  right,"  he  said,  "with  my  small  drill, 

And  you  can  take  it  to  the  worthy  matron 
As  good  as  new,  when  you  return  from  mill." 

The  miser  gone,  our  smith  of  wit  and  muscle, 
His  features  bright  with  pleasure  as  he  went 

Across  the  street,  yet  free  from  any  bustle, 
Bought  a  new  needle  with  a  copper  cent. 


92  CROPP. 

Soon  Croop  returned  :  a  man  of  whim  and  wheedle, 
He  looked  the  job  over  twice  or  thrice, 

He  viewed  with  satisfaction  the  bright  needle, 
And  then  he  asked  the  blacksmith  for  his  price. 

"  I  think,  friend  Cropp,  the  work  is  worth  two  shil 
ling'  ; 

The  job  is  number  one,  you  see  'tis  prime, 
The  steel  is  hard,  it  took  a  lot  of  drilling, 

I  might  have  laid  a  plow-share  in  the  time." 

Cropp  paid  the  bill,  and  holding  up  the  treasure, 
His  hard  grey  eye  lit  up  with  cunning  glow, 

His  stolid  features  beamed  for  once  with  pleasure ; 
"  It  could  be  done,  you  see,  I  told  her  so  !" 


THE    SINGLE    PROHIBITION    VOTE    OF 
TREMPEALEAU  COUNTY. 


WHEN  showers  of  silent  missives  fell 
In  places  near  and  towns  remote,. 
They  counted  up,  and  strange  to  tell, 
They  found  one  Prohibition  vote. 

In  numbers,  Garfield  led  the  van — 
A  statesman,  patriot,  soldier  brave ; 

A  stalwart,  staunch  Republican — 
Who  did  so  much  to  free  the  slave. 

'Tis  true  his  enemies  declared 

He  shared  Mobilier  with  Ames  ; 

Of  this,  his  friends  recked  not,  nor  cared — 
Thev  said,  "  It  can't  be  true  of  James  !" 


94  THE    VOTE. 

Next,  Hancock  came,  in  number  less, 
But  made  quite  good  by  extra  noise, 

If  one  might  be  allowed  to  guess 
By  waving  flags  and  shouts  of  boys. 

And  Weaver,  too,  made  quite  a  stir — 
"  The  farmer's  and  mechanic's  choice  ;" 

His  Greenback  web  they  would  prefer, 
In  plenteous  volume  to  rejoice. 

And  then  they  laughed  at  poor  Neal  Dow 
Till  one  man  nearly  split  his  throat ; 

They  said  :  "  We'd  like  to  see  just  now, 
The  man  that  threw  away  his  vote  !" 

A  grave  philosopher  stood  near, 

And  leaning  on  his  staff  of  oak, 
He  listened  to  the  jibe  and  jeer, 

And  then  in  kindly  accents  spoke  : 

"  We're  oft  deceived  by  what  we  see  ; 

WTe  oft  misjudge  by  what  we  hear  ; 
The  thoughts  that  truthful  seem  to  be, 

Are  sometimes  falsehoods,  when  made  clear." 


THE    VOTE.  95 

He  took  from  'neath  his  garments,  then 
The  moral  scales,  that  motives  weigh  ; 

That  weigh  the  subtle  thoughts  of  men, 
As  gold  is  tried  in  the  assay. 

Two  thousand  votes  were  on  one  scale, 

To  weigh  what  is  with  what  doth  seem — 

That  truth  o'er  error  might  prevail — 
The  single  ballot  tipped  the  beam ! 


LIFE. 

T  HEAR  them  say  that  life  is  very  sweet, 
•*-And  so  it  is,  if  filled  with  noble  deeds  ; 

If  it  be  given  to  help  a  brother's  needs, 
To  cheer  him  on,  to  guide  his  weary  feet, 
And  make  his  earthly  pleasures  more  complete. 

But  if  man  liveth  all  in  all  for  self, 
And  if  he  seek  in  life  no  higher  meed 
Than  low  desires  to  satisfy  his  greed, 

The  pleasures  that  may  flow  from  hoarding  pelf; 
Then  life  is  barren,  poor  and  common-place, 

And  all  unworthy  the  creative  plan 
That  spake  to  being  an  immortal  race— 

The  crowning  work  of  all  since  life  began  — 

Half  human,  half  divine— yet  erring  man. 


12 


DECEMBER. 


GRAVE  and  gloomy  December- 
Last  of  the  passing  year ; 
I  shiver  while  I  remember 
The  last  time  thou  wert  here. 

Out  of  the  frozen  North-land, 

Cometh  again  thy  blast, 
Shrieking  through  leafless  branches 

And  rushing  wildly  past. 

Down  in  the  hazel  thicket 
Whistles  the  mother  quail, 

Calling  her  Summer  broodlings, 
With  shrill  and  piercing  wail — 


98  DECEMBER. 

Calling  her  brood  to  covert 
Down  in  the  sheltered  vale, 

While  the  stealthy  red  fox 
Is  following  on  their  trail. 

Poor  little  Summer  broodlings, 
Born  on  the  prairie's  breast, 

Fanned  by  the  cooling  breezes, 
Snug  in  the  downy  nest, — 

Wandering  through  the  grain-fields, 
Sheltered  from  Summer's  heat, 

Safe  from  the  hawk's  sharp  talons, 
Reared  in  the  farmer's  wheat. 

Shadows  are  on  the  prairie — 
Shadows  enshroud  the  hill ; 

Sharply  the  hail  is  driving — 
The  blast  is  piercing  chill — 

The  stars  are  hid  in  the  heavens — 

The  moon  looks  down  through  the  rift 

On  the  cold  earth's  wild  commotion, 
And  glints  on  the  piling  drift. 


DECEMBER.  99 

Up  in  the  oaken  branches, 

Hooteth  the  boding  owl  : 
"  What  care  I  for  the  storm-blast — 

What  for  the  tempest's  howl !" 
"To-hoo!  to-hoo!  to-hoo-ah !" 

Shouteth  the  boding  owl. 

"To-hoo!  to-hoo!  to-hoo-ah!' 

I  joy  in  the  tempest's  wail- 
To-night  I  sup  on  rabbit, 
To-morrow,  feast  on  quail !" 

Life,  too,  hath  its  December, 

WThen  passed  the  June  of  youth, 

Happy  if  we  remember 
A  life  devoted  to  truth. 

Have  borne  its  burdens  bravely — 
Have  lightened  our  brother's  load, 

And  cheered  him  kindly  onward 
Over  the  weary  road. 

Galesville,  Wis. 


FAREWELL  TO  1880. 


Good-bye  Old  Year ! 
Thou  art  hastening  to  thy  close  ; 
Thy  days  are  numbered  here, 
And  in  thy  last  repose 

Thou  wilt  slumber  with  thy  kindred  gone  before, 
To  awaken  never  more  ! 

Good-bye  Old  Year ! 
How  cold  and  white  thou  art ! 

The  blast  is  blowing  drear 
And  the  beatings  of  thy  heart 
Grow  fainter,  and  yet  fainter,  to  the  end  : 
Good-bye,  Old  Friend  ! 


FAREWELL    TO    1880.  101 

Yet  thanks,  Old  Year, 
For  thy  chastening  and  thy  joys, 

For  the  happiness,  the  cheer, 
Though  mixed  with  base  alloys, — 
For  the  peace  and  good  will  that  abound, 
And  plenty  strewn  around. 

Good-bye,  Old  Year ! 
And  while  we  ring  thy  knell, 

Let  us  write  above  thy  bier  : 
"  Thou  perform'dst  thy  mission  well, 
And  a  bright  and  golden  link  in  Nature's  chain 
Forever  wilt  remain  !" 

Galesville,  Dec.  <28, 1880. 


THE  PRESS. 


THE  Press  !  the  Press  !  the  mighty  Press  ! 
The  friend  of  Freedom  and  the  free  ; 
That  came  humanity  to  hless — 

The  staunehest  prop  of  liberty. 
In  peace,  it  tunes  the  rural  reeds  ; 

In  war,  it  sounds  the  bugle  note,— 
Leads  nations  on  to  daring  deeds, 

Where  sabres  flash  and  banners  float. 

In  science,  it  doth  ever  lend 

A  hand  her  noble  gifts  to  spread  ; 
It  is  the  poet's'  faithful  friend, 

Through  which  he  lives  though  he  be  dead. 
It  is  a  solace  sweet  to  age— 

The  brightest  guiding  star  of  youth  ; 
A  counselor  unto  the  sage— 

The  guard  of  virtue  and  of  truth. 


THE    PRESS.  103 

It  brings  its  gifts  to  stately  hall, 

And  to  the  peasant's  humble  cot ; 
It  is  alike  to  one  and  all, 

Of  high  degree  or  lowly  lot. 
The  Press  !  the  Press !  the  mighty  Press ! 

The  friend  of  Freedom  and  the  free — 
That  came  humanity  to  bless, 

The  staunchest  prop  of  liberty. 


STANZAS. 


WRITTEN    IN    AN    ALBUM. 


WE  win  our  way  by  patient  toil  ; 
We  make  our  record  by  our  deeds  ; 
The  richest  and  most  generous  soil, 
Uncultured,  beareth  worthless  weeds. 

'Tis  well  the  world's  respect  to  win  ; 

To  win  our  own  is  better  far  : 
'Tis  little  what  we  might  have  been, 

But  all  in  all  of  what  we  are. 

A  life  that's  worthy  of  success 

Be  thine,  and  if  it  bring  not  fame, 

It  hath  a  better  recompense — 
The  guerdon  of  a  spotless  name. 

13 


DEATH. 


THOU  say'st  our  friend  is  dead — and  thus  it 
seems : 

His  face  is  calm,  but  pale,  so  very  pale  ! 
A  heavenly  peace  lies  sweetly  on  his  lips — 
Almost  a  smile,  as  if  he  would  but  speak 
To  comfort  us,  and  say  that  all  is  well. 
Thou  say'st  'tis  sad  to  die  in  manhood's  prime  ; 
And  thou  art  right ;  but  if  we  may  compute 
Life  by  its  works,  and  not  its  length  of  years, 
Our  friend  hath  lived  out  his  allotted  time, 
Paid  Nature's  debt,  and  left  a  record  bright. 
No  boaster  he,  a  man  of  kindly  deeds, 
And  not  of  words  and  noisy  trumpeting  ; 
And  while  he  lies  so  peacefully  at  rest, 
I  think  the  angel  stands  with  ready  pen 
To  make  the  record  in  the  Book  of  Life. 


LINES. 

ON     THE     DEATH     OF     SUSAN     SLAYTON,     WHO      DIED 

MARCH  3d,  1843: 


FLOWER  of  loveliness,  liest  thou  low  ! 
The  sorrows  of  earth  no  more  shalt  thou  know ; 
No  more  shalt  thou  gladden  the  fire-side  hearth — 
Lowly  and  cold  is  thy  bed  in  the  earth. 

Spring  shall  return  with  its  beauty  and  flowers — 
Gaily  shall  warble  the  birds  in  the  bowers  ; 
The  flowers  thou  never  shalt  gather  again, 
Nor  join  the  glad  birds  with  thy  innocent  strain. 

Closed  are  the  eyes,  that  sparkled  so  bright, 
That  mirrored  thy  soul  in  angelic  light  ; 
Pale  is  thy  cheek,  where  once  bloomed  the  rose — 
Thou  art  gone  in  thy  youth,  to  thy  lasting  repose. 


LINES,  107 

But  peace  to  thee,  Susan,  and  sweet  be  thy  rest, 
And  green  be  the  sod  o'er  thy  innocent  breast, 
And  sweet  be  the  flowers  ;    their  fragrance  shall 

bring 
Thy  memory  back,  as  returneth  each  spring. 

Sad  are  the  hearts  of  thy  parents  and  drear  ; 
They  sorrow  that  thou  canst  not  gladden  them  here ; 
But  why  should  they  sorrow  for  thee  or  repine  ? 
All  too  cold  is  this  world,  for  that  warm  heart  of 
thine ! 


THE  VETERAN'S  REQUEST. 


OSING  the  song  of  other  years, 
And  I  will  listen  to  thy  strain ; 
It  sweetly  chimes  upon  my  ears, 

And  brings  my  childhood  back  again. 

Again  it  brings  unto  my  view 

The  bright  gay  scenes  I  loved  of  yore- 
When  all  seemed  beautiful  and  true — 

But  now  are  fled  forevermore. 

The  rosy  cheeks,  the  sparkling  eyes 
That  glowed  so  lovingly  and  kind, 

And  made  earth  seem  a  paradise, 
Are  gone,  and  I  am  left  behind. 


THE  VETERAN'S  REQUEST.  109 

And  manhood's  aspirations,  too, 

Are  with  those  early  friendships  fled — 

All  vanished  like  the  morning  dew 
Upon  the  summer  landscape  spread. 

How  varied  are  the  scenes  of  life — 

How  strangely  mixed  with  weal  and  woe  ! 

I've  seen  the  field  of  mortal  strife, 

I've  seen  the  strong,  the  proud,  laid  low  ! 

I've  heard  the  trumpet's. war-like  bray — 
I've  seen  the  deadly  saber  flash— 

The  war-steed  rush  to  bloody  fray, 
And  bayonet  with  bayonet  clash ! 

Earth  hath  few  pleasures  now  for  me, 

For  severed  is  its  dearest  tie ; 
Yet  oft  doth  doating  memory 

Dwell  with  delight  on  days  gone  by. 

Slow  roll  the  years  when  life  is  new, 
But  when  we  come  to  hoary  age, 

And  turn  our  backward  path  to  view, 
"Tis  hardly  marked  on  Nature's  page. 


110   .      THE  VETERAN'S  REQUEST. 

Now  sing  the  song  of  other  years, 
And  I  will  listen  to  thy  strain  ; 

It  sweetly  chimes  upon  my  ears, 

And  brings  my  childhood  back  again. 


LINES. 


WRITTEN    IN    A    LADY  S    ALBUM. 


I  NEED  not  wish  thee  youth  and  grace, 
With  friends  to  cheer  and  home  to  bless- 
These  are  but  wishes  common-place, 
And  these  are  gifts  you  now  possess. 

But  I  will  wish  thee  lengthened  years — 
A  life  that  blesses  and  is  blest — 

Bright,  joyous  days,  unsulled  by  tears, 
That  bringeth  calm  and  peaceful  rest. 


TO  A  WESTERN  O\VL. 


THEY  call  thee  bird  of  omen  ill : 
From  the  deep  forest  on  the  hill, 
Thy  hoot  disturbs  the  night  air  still ! 

And  yet  thou  seemest  wondrous  wise 
As  from  thy  round  prophetic  eye 
Thou  lookest  hidden  mysteries. 

One  thing  is  sure,  depend  upon't, 
Your  wise  old  grandsire  in  Vermont, 
Knew  every  dark  sequestered  spot ; 

And  when  the  blackening  thunder-cloud 
Wrapped  lofty  Mansfield  like  a  shroud, 
He  hooted  long  and  hooted  loud. 

Perched  in  a  lofty  hemlock  tree, 
To  hoo!  to  hoo!  came  bodingly 
Upon  the  night  air,  bold  and  free. 


112  TO    A    WESTERN    OWL. 

Tis  said,  that  many  years  before 

He  heard  the  cannon's  deafening  roar, 

And  saw  the  smoke  on  Champlain's  shore  ; 

And,  listening  to  each  booming  gun, 
He  strained  his  eyes  to  see  the  fun, 
Where  Yankees  fought  and  Britons  run. 

He  surely  was  no  common  bird, 
And'  though  he  could  not  read  a  word, 
Judged  well  from  what  he  saw  and  heard. 


14 


THE  RECLUSE. 


A    ROMANCE    IN    TWO    PARTS. 


PART    FIRST. 

ACROSS  the  sea,  on  England's  shore, 
There  lived  a  Squire  of  fine  estate, 
Whose  wife  had  died  some  years  before, 
And  left  him  most  disconsolate. 

Two  noble  sons  to  manhood  grown — 
A  sweet  young  girl  of  seventeen  ; 

And  though  the  latter  not  his  own, 
She  scarcely  dearer  could  have  been, 
Though  she  were  of  his  kith  and  kin. 

She  was  the  daughter  of  a  friend, 
Who,  dying,  left  her  to  his  care, 

And  all  the  Graces  seemed  to  lend 
Their  charms  to  give  her  beauty  rare. 


114  THE    RECLUSE. 

Well  read  in  letters  and  in  art, 

In  social  culture  well  refined ; 
A  tender  sympathizing  heart, 

AVith  beauteous  form  and  wealth  of  mind, 
'Tis  little  marvel  many  sought 

To  gain  her  love  and  win  her  hand  ; 
Yet  all  their  efforts  proved  as  naught — 

Her  heart  was  her's  still  to  command. 

Thus  to  the  world  the  maid  appeared, 

But  in  the  circle  of  her  home, 
She  was  most  cherished  and  endeared  ; 

Nor  did  her  fancy  seem  to  roam 
To  gay  and  festive  scenes  without. 

With  a  devoted  daughter's  love, 
And  sisterly  regards  devout, 

Loved  and  beloved,  she  seemed  to  move. 

Wrhen  years  before,  the  mother  died, 
More  dear  became  the  father's  ward  ; 

And  more  to  him  than  all  beside, 
Save  his  two  sons,  in  his  regard. 


THE    RECLUSE.  115 

He  had  a  plan — though  naught  was  said— 
On  which  he  doated  much  of  late  ; 

The  eldest  son,  in  time  should  wed 
His  ward,  and  heir  his  fine  estate. 

The  younger  son,  of  studious  mind, 
Might  well  a  learned  profession  seek  ; 

Though  to  the  army  disinclined, 
He  took  most  kindly  to  his  Greek. 

"  And  fortune  favors,"  thought  the  Squire, 
"  For  while  with  John  she  is  most  free, 

From  Richard  she  doth  oft  retire 
To  seek  John's  livelier  company." 

Alas,  the  Squire,  at  his  ripe  age 

Though  of  a  penetrating  mind, 
And  on  most  subjects,  counted  sage, 

Seemed,  in  love-making,  growing  blind. 

The  timid  glance,  the  drooping  eye, 
The  deepening  flush  upon  the  cheek, 

The  bashful  look,  so  coy  and  shy, 

More  eloquent  than  words  can  speak, 

Told  the  sweet  tale  in  language  true — 
So  ancient,  yet  forever  new. 


116  THE    RECLUSE. 

And  this,  John  saw  and  understood 
More  clearly  than  his  brother  saw  ; 

He  loved  the  maiden,  but  he  would 
Not  sacrifice  fraternal  law. 

Soon  in  an  interview  the  Squire 

His  social  scheme  to  John  revealed ; 

Avowed  his  heart's  most  fond  desire, 
And  nothing  from  his  son  concealed. 

And  John,  without  reserve  expressed 
His  firm  convictions  ;  but  he  said 

"  He  did  not  know,  he  only  guessed, 
She  loved  his  brother  in  his  stead." 

John's  intimations  much  surprised 
The  father,  who  expressed  a  doubt — 

Twas  something  he  had  not  surmised, 
But  were  it  so,  he'd  soon  find  out. 

"I  doubt,"  said  John,  "  if  Richard  knows 
The  tender  passion  of  his  heart ; 

Nor  yet  would  Edith  now  disclose 

The  fact  which  she  but  knows  in  part." 


THE    RECLUSE.  117 

A  few  days  after,  on  the  lawn, 

The  Squire  and  Richard  as  they  walk, 

Just  as  the  evening  shades  come  on, 
Engage  in  confidential  talk  : 

"  I  think,"  said  Richard  in  reply 
To  something  that  the  father  said, 

"  The  time  has  now  arrived  when  I 

Should  seek  some  work  for  hand  and  head." 

"  While  John  and  Edith  with  you  stay 

To  comfort  you  in  coming  age, 
I  might  go  to  America, 

And  in  s^me  enterprise  engage." 
And  ere  the  father  had  replied 

Edith  was  standing  by  his  side. 

"  Oh  Richard  !  brother,  will  you  go 
And  leave  your  friends  so  very  dear  ! 

It  cannot,  it  must  not  be  so! 

How  can  we  do  without  vou  here  ? 


118  THE    RECLUSE. 

A  tear  was  in  her  loving  eyes — 

A  crimson  flush  suffused  her  cheek  ; 

And  Richard  felt  a  sweet  surprise, 
A  happiness  he  could  not  speak. 

In  interview  with  John  next  day, 

He  frankly  told  him  what  he'd  planned  ; 

But  John  insisted  he  should  stay, 
Nor  think  to  leave  his  native  land. 

Richard  replied  :  "  My  brother,  dear, 
I  must  not  lead  an  aimless  life  ; 

The  world  has  duties,  tasks  severe, 
I  long  to  mingle  in  its  strife." 

"  And  you  can  ask  sweet  Edith's  hand, 
And  comfort  father  in  his  age, 

While  I  will  seek  a  distant  land, 
And  in  some  useful  work  engage." 

"  No,  Richard  thou  art  more  than  blind, 
Thou  dost  possess  sweet  Edith's  heart, 

A  fact  I  long  ago  divined 

And  shunned  myself  the  fatal  dart." 


THE    RECLUSE.  119 

In  her  I  have  a  sister's  love, 

I  feel  a  brotherly  return ; 
Her  joy  in  you  is  far  above — 

Where  spirit  doth  for  spirit  yearn." 

"  My  most  unselfish  brother,  dear, 

How  shall  I  thank  you  for  your  words  ? 

A  love  and  friendship  so  sincere 
Are  such  as  seldom  earth  affords." 

"  Not  as  unselfish  as  may  seem," 

Said  John,  "  as  you  shall  shortly  see, 

For  I  have  had  my  own  sweet  dreams 
Of  conjugal  felicity." 


Two  years  have  past  and  John  has  wed 

A  titled  lady  for  his  mate. 
Her  gentle  birth  to  serve  instead 

Of  gold  in  bank  or  rich  estate. 

And  Richard,  with  his  constant  heart, 
Has  made  sweet  Edith  all  his  own — 

A  bond  which  only  Fate  may  part, 

When  Death  shall  claim  one  for  his  own. 


120  THE    RECLUSE. 

And  they  have  bid  a  sad  adieu 

To  kindred,  friends  and  native  land, 

And  launched  upon  the  ocean  blue, 
To  seek  a  home  on  foreign  strand. 

The  sun  was  bright,  the  air  was  balm, 

When  sailed  they  from  their  native  shore, 

With  gentle  breeze,  and  sea  as  calm 
As  were  the  loving  hearts  it  bore. 

The  blissful  hours,  how  fleet  they  sped ! 

The  sky  above,  the  sea  below, — 
The  starry  firmament  o'erhead, 

All  seemed  to  wear  a  lovelier  glow. 

The  seventh  day  was  near  its  close, 
When  murky  clouds  obscured  the  sky, 

And  from  the  west  the  winds  arose  ; 
The  angry  waves  were  dashing  high, — 

And  now  dropped  down  the  gloomy  night 
And  covered  ocean  like  a  shroud. 

The  wind  increased  with  fearful  might — 
The  lightnings  leapt  along  the  cloud. 

15 


THE    RECLUSE.  121 

The  thunder  came  with  fearful  crash  ! 
The  opening  clouds  their  torrents  dash  ! 

And  all  were  scuttled  down  below. 
The  seaman  brave,  with  stern  intent, 

While  waves  sweep  o'er  and  tempests  blow, 
Must  battle  with  the  element. 

Now  mounts  the  ship  on  mountain  wave — 
Now  plunges  in  the  foaming  main  ; 

Yet  on  she  goes  right  staunch  and  brave, 
And  plunges  but  to  rise  again  ! 

But,  ha  !  a  vivid  lightning  flash 

Reveals  a  ship  upon  their  lee ! 
A  moment — then  a  fearful  crash, 

That  sounds  above  the  roaring  sea ! 

The  captain's  cry  :  "  Man  quick  the  boats  ! 

Be  ready  men,  to  let  them  go  ! 
Free  everything  aboard  that  floats, 

And  call  the  passengers,  below  !" 


122  THE    RECLUSE. 

Fast  sinks  the  ship — how  dear  is  life 
To  Richard  and  his  sweet  young  bride ! 

His  dearest  treasure,  cherished  wife — 
Far  more  than  all  on  earth  beside ! 

One  thought  sustained  amid  the  gloom  : 
No  earthly  power  their  souls  can  part ; 

And  though  they  find  an  ocean  tomb, 

E'en  Death  shall  find  them  heart  to  heart. 

And  now  they  seek  to' launch  the  boat ; 

But  ere  it  from  the  ship  is  free, 
And  made  in  readiness  to  float, 

A  wave  has  swept  them  in  the  sea ! 


THE  RECLUSE. 

PART  SECOND. 

ON  the  rugged  mountain's  side, 
Long  ago,  for  many  a  year, 
In  a  cabin  did  abide, 

Allerston,  the  mountaineer. 

High  above,  the  mountain  crest 
Seemed  to  pierce  the  azure  sky, 

Where  the  eagle  built  her  nest- 
Kent  the  air  with  piercing  cry. 

Close  against  the  beetling  rock, 
Loosened  from  its  mountain  bed 

By  the  power  of  lightning  shock, 
He  had  reared  his  humble  shed. 


124  THE    RECLUSE. 

Sheltered  from  the  northern  blast, 
Guarded  from  the  western  wind 

By  the  walls  which  Nature  cast 
From  her  masonry  behind ; 

South  and  East,  by  logs  of  spruce 
That  grew  upon  the  table-land, 

And  fashioned  neatly  for  their  use 
With  axe  in  his  artistic  hand. 

The  roof  above  with  barks  was  laid 
On  rafters  from  the  fragrant  fir ; 

The  batten  door,  of  planks  was  made, 
With  bars  that  man  nor  beast  could  stir. 

In  front,  a  miniature  plateau 

O'er  primal  forest  grand,  looked  down 

Upon  the  glistening  spires  below, 
Where  nestled  a  New  England  town. 

Before  the  hut,  a  garden  plat 

Was  cleared  of  the  primeval  trees, 

Where  speckled  mooley,  sleek  and  fat, 
Her  cud  was  chewing  at  her  ease. 


THE    RECLUSE.  125 

And  on  the  "right,  where  rocks  were  rent, 
A  crystal  spring  gushed  forth  to  light, 

And  sparkling,  singing  as  it  went, 

Dashed  down  the  rocks  and  out  of  sight ; 

Yet  echoed  back  the  mountain  caves 
The  tinkling  music  that  it  made, 

As  downward  leapt  the  tiny  waves 
O'er  rocky  bed  in  wild  cascade ; 

Still  hurrying  onward  to  the  mead, 

Through  canon  deep,  then  peered  again 

'Twixt  verdant  banks  with  lessened  speed, 
A  winding,  molten-silver  chain. 

Deep  forests  flanked  on  either  hand 
The  cultured  plat  and  cabin  rude, 

While  eastward  far  the  vision  spanned 
The  town  from  this  wild  solitude. 

The  maple,  valued  for  its  use, 

The  fragrant  birch  and  graceful  beech, 
The  hemlock  and  the  resinous  spruce — 

Grave  veterans,  had  they  power  of  speech, 


126  THE    RECLUSE. 

Might  many  a  startling  tale  unfold, 
Unwritten  yet  by  human  pen, 

Of  centuries  grown  dim  and  old 
Beyond  the  power  of  mortal  ken. 

The  nimble  squirrels,  sportive  played 
Among  the  branches  all  day  long  ; 

The  birds  their  happy  music  made, 

And  trilled  their  notes  in  sweetest  song. 

His  hut  was  rude,  with  hole  aloft — 
The  fire  was  built  against  the  wall, 

The  smoke,  escaping  at  the  roof, 
Curled  upward  in  a  column  tall. 

A  table  wrought  from  slab  of  spruce — 
A  cot  of  bearskins  at  one  side — 

Utensils  fashioned  for  his  use — 

His  simple  wants  seemed  well  supplied. 

A  fox-hound  stretched  before  the  fire — 
A  rifle,  horn  and  bullet-pouch— 

A  knife,  a  hunter  might  admire, 
In  handy  reach  above  his  couch. 


THE   RECLUSE.  127 

A  wholesome- tidiness  prevailed, 

As  ordered  by  a  woman's  hand  ; 
All  so  complete,  that  nothing  failed 

The  admiration  to  command. 

Choice  books,  upon  the  shelves  arranged, 
In  various  languages,  were  here  ; 

Though  from  society  estranged, 
These  silent  friends  were  ever  near. 

Close  by  him  was  his  loved  guitar, 
That  many  a  lonely  hour  beguiled, 

And  oft  his  thoughts  seemed  wandering  far 
To  days  when  he  was  but  a  child. 

A  mournful  shadow  on  his  face — 

A  far-off  look  was  in  his  eye — 
And  lines  of  sorrow  your  might  trace, 

While  from  his  breast  oft  came  a  sigh. 

And  he,  who  reigned  within  supreme, 
A  man  of  forty,  lithe  and  strong, 

None  knew  his  history,  and  deemed 
To  ask  him,  would  be  doing  wrong. 


128  THE    RECLUSE. 

For  he  was  courteous  and  kind, 

And  loved  by  those  who  knew  him  well ; 
A  man  of  culture  and  of  mind, 

Whose  life  seemed  burdened  by  a  spell. 


The  day  was  bright,  the  sky  was  clear, 

The  forest  odors  filled  the  air  ; 
The  birds  sung  in  the  branches  near, 

And  all  seemed  happy  everywhere  ; 

For  it  was  June,  sweet,  smiling  June, 
With  fragrant  flowers  and  gorgeous  leaf ; 

When  Nature  seems  in  perfect  tune 
With  harmonies  that  banish  grief. 

The  gray  mists  hung  above  the  town, 
And  shut  the  landscape  from  the  view, 

On  which  the  mountaineer  looked  down 
And  saw  the  church  spires  piercing  through 

The  mystic  drapery  and  dun, 

And  glistening  in  the  morning  sun. 


16 


THE    RECLUSE.  129 

And  thus  he  seemed ;  shut  from  the  world, 

Far  from  the  stage  of  busy  life, 
Where  human  actors  fiercely  whirled 

In  dizzy  maze  of  ceasless  strife ; 
Their  aspirations  and  their  joys, 
Were  now  to  him  but  banished  toys. 

The  blasted  pine  upon  the  cliff, 

With  barkless  trunk  and  naked  limb, 

That  standeth  there  so  stark  and  stiff, 
Is  but  a  fitting  type  of  him  ; 

It  draws  no  sap  from  mother  earth, 

That  bore  and  nourished  it  at  birth. 


The  sun  rose  high— a  party  gay 

Were  climbing  up  the  mountain  side, 

And  as  they  mount,  they  take  their  way 
Near  where  the  hermit  did  abide. 

And  now  upon  the  mountain  crest, 
They  look  afar,  the  country  round ; 

To  north  and  south,  to  east  and  west, 
They  view  a  grandeur  most  profound. 


130  THE    RECLUSE. 

The  morning  mists  had  crept  away, 
And  in  the  glowing  mid-day  light, 

Hill,  vale  and  stream  before  them  lay, 
And  burst  upon  their  ravished  sight. 

A  thousand  farms  before  them  spread, 
With  mead  and  pasture  draped  in  green  ; 

While  many  a  stream  its  silver  thread 
Wound  far  away  the  hills  between  ; 

With  hamlets,  dotting  here  and  there, 
And  far  the  city's  domes  and  spires 

Reflected  in  the  noon-tide  glare, 
Glowed  like  so  many  beacon-fires. 

And,  bounding  far  their  wondering  gaze, 
The  circling  mountains,  range  on  range, 

Lay  basking  in  the  shimmering  haze, 
And  framed  a  picture  rare  and  strange. 

Thus  looked  the  city  strangers  down 
On  hill  and  valley,  field  and  town. 


THE    RECLUSE.  131 

Now  tired  and  hungry,  they  retire 

To  take  a  lunch,  enjoy  a  rest ; 
Descending,  build  with  sticks,  a  fire 

Beneath  the  mountain's  sheltering  crest. 

Where  Nature  reared  a  fragrant  bower, 
And  crystal  waters  sparkled  near 
The  cabin  of  the  mountaineer. 

They  spent  a  most  delightful  hour. 

They  spread  their  cloths  upon  the  ground, 
A  merry  circle  gathered  round, 
With  conversation  full  of  glee — 
WTith  sparkling  jest  and  repartee. 

But  there  was  one,  among  the  rest, 

Who  seemed  with  heavy  thoughts  oppressed  ; 

And  while  across  her  face  would  flit 

A  transient  smile,  at  flash  of  wit, 

It  passed  as  soon,  and  in  its  room, 

There  came  a  deeper  shade  of  gloom. 


132  THE    RECLUSE. 

Among  the  party  there  were  few 
The  sad  but  gentle  lady  knew  ; 
She  had  a  sweet  and  lovely  face, 
A  kindly  word,  a  winning  grace, 
And  though  of  beauty,  very  rare, 
Bore  marks  of  sorrow  and  of  care. 
A  week  had  only  passed,  since  she, 
A  stranger  came  across  the  sea, 
And  with  a  city  friend,  was  there 
To  breathe  the  bracing  mountain  air. 

The  lunch  was  o'er,  but  not  the  jest, 

When  suddenly  along  the  west, 

A  small  black  cloud  appeared  in  sight, 

And  scarce  above  the  mountain  height. 

Then  on  it  came,  a  somber  cloud, 

That  wrapped  the  mountain  like  a  shroud  ; 

Save,  when  there  came  a  lightning  flash, 

Quick  followed  by  the  thunder  crash. 

And  now  they  seek  the  cabin  near, 
Where  dwelt  the  hermit  mountaineer. 


THE    RECLUSE.  133 

With  open  door  he  kindly  said  : 

"  You're  welcome  to  my  humble  shed." 

They  passed  his  hospitable  door 
And  seated  round  the  cabin  wall, 

A  company  of  near  a  score. 

And  soon  the  rain  began  to  fall, 

And  then  the  mountain  tempest  roared— 
With  many  a  shriek,  or  dismal  wail — 

And  down  the  swollen  torrent  poured. 

The  sky  was  darkened  as  by  night, 
Save  the  faint  glow  upon  the  hearth, 

And  many  a  face  was  deathly  white, 
While  ceased  the  former  tones  of  mirth. 

For  hours  the  mountain  tempest  roared, 
For  hours  the  rain  in  torrents  poured, 
And  when  at  last,  there  came  a  rest, 
The  sun  was  sinking  in  the  west, 
And  many  a  stream,  now  fierce  and  wide, 
Went  leaping  down  the  mountain  side. 


134  THE    RECLUSE. 

Made  angry  by  the  recent  rain, 
Dashed  roaring  onward  to  the  plain. 

And  then  a  consultation  rose  : 
The  day  was  drawing  to  its  close, 
The  night  would  soon  be  closing  down, 
And  miles  to  pass  to  reach  the  town 
O'er  paths  both  difficult  and  steep, 
Through  gloomy  forests  dark  and  deep. 

"  I'll  help  you,"  said  the  mountaineer, 
"  You're  welcome  to  my  cabin  here 
Such  as  it  is,  though  humble  quite, 
It  offers  shelter  for  the  night ; 
And  safety,  sure,  demands  your  stay, 
For  dark  and  treacherous  is  the  way, 
And  while  my  humble  roof  you  share 
You  shall  be  welcome  to  mv  fare." 

*/ 

His  generous  offer,  frank  and  free, 
Made  with  such  gentle  courtesy, 
They  thankfully  accept,  and  then 
Bring  forth  the  baskets  once  again. 


THE    RECLUSE.  135 

And  set  to  work  with  patient  zeal, 
Then  to  prepare  the  evening  meal. 
The  fire  renewed,  they  roast  the  game 
Shot  in  the  morning  as  they  came  ; 
With  trout,  caught  in  the  mountain  brook, 
The  triumph  of  the  angler's  hook ; 
And  now  they  brew  the  fragrant  ten, 
Culled  from  the  city's  choice  bohea, 
That  filled  all  space,  and  gave  away 
Its  appetizing  aroma. 

A  rustic  table,  ample  sized, 

Was  by  the  hermit,  improvised, 

And  deftly  laid  by  ladies'  hand, 

With  smoking  viands  that  command 

The  admiration  of  the  croud, 

That  shout  their  praises  long  and  loud. 

Each  one  was  now  assigned  his  post: 
The  head  was  given  to  the  host, 
While  near  the  stranger  lady  sat, 
Who  joined  not  in  the  lively  chat. 


136  THE    RECLUSE. 

But  seemed  with  heavy  thoughts  oppressed, 
As  if  deep  sorrow  filled  her  breast. 
She  trembled  when  the  hermit  spoke, 
As  suffering  from  mysterious  stroke, 
While  others  laughed,  and  merry  joke 
Went  round  the  board  in  harmless  glee, 
AVith  unrestricted  jollity. 

And  while  the  host  strove  hard  to  please, 
He  labored  and  seemed  ill  at  ease ; 
As  if  some  mystery  o'er  him  hung— 
Some  shadow  to  his  being,  clung. 

When  many  a  pleasant  word  was  passed, 
And  all  were  satisfied  at  last — 
And  when  the  table  had  been  cleared, 
And  when  the  sun  had  disappeared, 
The  torches  lit,  the  fire  renewed, 
They  circle  round  on  benches  rude. 
The  night  without  was  dark  and  drear, 
The  panther  screamed  from  covert  near. 


17 


THE    RECLUSE.  137 

The  weird  owl  answered  back  again, 
The  echo  of  the  wild  refrain — 
Joint  tenant  of  the  wild  domain, 
That  held  the  undisputed  right 
To  rule  the  gloomy  wood  by  night. 

To  pass  the  dreary  night  away — 

To  shorten  up  the  hours  till  day, 

Which  might  wax  tedious  and  long, 

Each  one  in  turn  should  sing  a  song. 

And  if  one  failed  to  sing — a  tale, 

Might,  in  its  absence,  then  prevail. 

And  first  in  order,  he  who  led, 

A  bright  young  lad  whose  name  was  "  Fred." 


SONG. 

EYES  OF  BLUE. 

O  give  me  the  lass  with  the  eyes  of  blue — 

With  golden  hair  and  ringlets  curled, 
Whose  heart  is  loving,  kind  and  true ; 
I  ask  no  sweeter  gift  of  the  world. 
I  might  forget 
A  bright  brunette. 


138  THE    RECLUSE. 

AVith  sparkling  eyes  and  raven  hair, 

But  eyes  of  blue, 

So  loving,  true, 
Would  haunt  my  memory  everywhere. 

I  might  admire  soft  eyes  of  brown- 
Love  in  their  liquid  depths  oft  glows  ; 
But  their  deep  arched  brows  might  sometimes 

frown 

And  a  thorn  be  hid  'neath  the  beauteous  rose. 
I  might  forget 
A  bright  brunette, 

With  sparkling  eyes  and  raven  hair ; 
Soft  eyes  of  brown 
May  sometimes  frown, 
But  blue,  are  constant  everywhere. 

And  eyes  of  gray,  some  people  say, 

Cut  like  a  sharp  Damascus  blade- 
Strong  to  defend,  but  keen  to  slay  ; 
Of  such,  one  might  well  be  afraid. 
I  might  forget 
A  bright  brunette. 


THE    RECLUSE.  139 

With  sparkling  eyes  and  raven  hair  ; 

And  then  the  gray 

May  sometimes  slay, 
But  blue,  are  tender  everywhere. 


When  ceased  the  song,  they  criticise 
The  advocate  of  azure  eyes  ; 
And  ask,  why  the  Creator  made 
Some  eyes  of  light  and  darker  shade, 
When  only  eyes  of  blue  are  true  ? 
And  then  his  brown-eyed  sister  said  : 
"  O,  Fred  knowa  better,  don't  you  Fred  ?" 
(And,  glanced  across  the  room,  to  where 
Sat  black -eyed  Kate,  her  brother's  care,) 
"  A  poet's  freak  as  I  suppose, 
Who,  in  his  dreaming  only  knows 
That  eyes  of  blue 
Will  rhyme  with  true. 
But  now  it  does  of  right  belong 
To  Kate  to  follow  next  in  song." 


140  THE   RECLUSE. 

But  Kate  was  shy,  and  made  excuse 
Yet  found  it  of  but  little  use. 
The  hermit  saw  she  was  afraid, 
With  his  guitar,  came  to  her  aid, 
And  with  a  word  of  kindly  cheer. 
Then  with  melodious  voice  and  clear, 
She  sang  of  rural  life — its  joys, 
Far  from  the  city's  strife  and  noise. 


SONG. 

A  rural  life  is  the  life  for  me, 

When  the  earth  is  green  and  fair  to  see  ; 

With  grazing  flocks  and  lowing  herds, 

And  the  sweet,  free  songs  of  the  happy  birds ; 

WTith  the  sparkling  dew  of  the  early  morn, 

And  the  fragrant  breath  of  the  sweet  pure  air, 
The  wealth  of  the  flowers  and  the  waving  corn 
That  gladden  our  senses  everywhere. 


THE    RECLUSE.  141 

They  may  sing  of  the  city's  pride  and  wealth, 
But  give  me  the  country  air  and  health, 
With  Nature's  gifts  of  sight  and  sound, 
With  Nature's  harmonies  around. 
I  ask  no  more — I  ask  but  these — 

A  bright  sweet  home  in  some  rural  nook, 
'Neath  the  shady  boughs  of  the  native  trees, 

With  the  lulling  sounds  of  a  babbling  brook. 
A  rural  life  is  the  life  for  me, 
When  the  earth  is  green  and  fair  to  see, 
With  the  grazing  flocks  and  lowing  herds, 
And  the  sweet,  free  songs  of  the  happy  birds. 


As  ceased  her  voice,  so  pure  and  free, 
According  in  sweet  harmony, 
The  simple  words  seemed  half  inspired, 
And  all  with  one  accord,  admired 
Her  modesty,  her  artless  grace, 
The  blushes  that  suffused  her  face. 


142  THE    RECLUSE. 

As  many  a  compliment  was  paid, 
In  tribute  to  the  black-eyed  maid  ; 
While  Jane,  the  farmer's  girl  declared 
That  while  she  Kate's  opinion  shared — 
Of  Nature's  beauties  and  her  charms, 
To  those  who  cultivate  the  farms — 
"  There's  real  drudgery"  she  said, 
"  For  those  who  labor  for  their  bread, 
And  much  of  homely  prose  comes  in, 
Where  a  sweet  poem  should  have  been. 
And  while  we  sing  our  simple  songs 
I  think  it  now  in  course  belongs 
To  Major  Dillon,  on  our  right, 
To  tell  us  something  of  the  fight — 
A  loftier  strain  of  camp  and  field, 
Where  some  must  triumph,  others  yield- 
Where  men,  the  glory  always  win, 
While  women  seldom  venture  in." 
The  gallant  Major  cleared  his  throat, ' 
And  struck  a  lofty  martial  note. 


THE    RECLUSE.  143 

SONG. 

THE  SCOUT. 

'Twas  the  eve  before  the  battle, 

Upon  our  arms  we  lay  ; 
The  foe,  encamped  before  us, 

Was  scarce  a  mile  away  : 

The  camp-fires  were  extinguished, 

No  stars  were  overhead  ; 
With  bated  breath  we  listened, 

The  sentry's  measured  tread. 

All  was  silent,  save  the  hoot  of  owl 

Above  us  in  the  pine, 
And  now  and  then  a  random  shot 

Along  the  picket  line  ; 

And  'mid  the  boding  stillness — 

The  silence  of  the  tomb, 
Each  felt  that  the  to-morrow 

Might  seal  his  earthly  doom. 


144  THE    RECLUSE. 

And  then  his  thoughts  would  wander 

To  loved  ones  far  away, 
And  shudder  as  he  thought  upon 

The  coming  bloody  day. 

But  hark  !  a  challenge  by  the  guard ! 

And  then  the  countersign  ; 
And  now  the  brave  and  trusty  scout, 

Has  passed  within  our  line. 

He  totters  on  with  weary  step 
And  seeks  the  Gen'ral's  tent ; 

For  he  had  drawn  the  picket's  shot, 
And,  bleeding  as  he  went, 

He  sank  exhausted   to  the  ground, 

A  paper  'neath  his  vest ; 
The  surgeon  found  the  cruel  ball 

Had  pierced  a  woman's  breast. 

But  well  he  kept  his  secret  then, 
And  saved  her  brave  young  life  ; 

A  service  which  she  well  repaid 
When  she  became  his  wife. 

18 


THE    RECLUSE.  145 

"  A  gallant  feat,  and  well  repaid," 

Kemarked  the  sparkling,  black-eyed  maid. 

"  But,  Major,  would  you  deem  it  wise 

To  make  unseemly  sacrifice, 

For  love  or  country,  thus  to  swerye, 

From  modest,  maidenly  reserve?" 

The  gallant  Major  thus  replied : 

"  We're  often  governed  by  our  pride. 

How  will  the  world  our  actions  view  ? 

We  ask,  and  not  if  they  be  true 

To  our  own  conscience  and  to  right, 

In  the  clear  ray  of  reason's  light. 

Woman's  true  mission  with  us  here, 
The  sacred  hearth  and  home  to  cheer ; 
From  life's  rude  scenes  and  cares  at  rest, 
And  blessing  while  herself  is  blest. 

Not  hers  the  camp  and  sanguine  field  ; 
Not  hers  the  sword  and  gun  to  wield  ; 
A  glorious  mission,  far  above — 
Of  trust,  of  charity  and  love." 


146  THE    RECLUSE. 

Yet  poorly,  man  her  love  requites, 
Who  would  deny  her  equal  rights, 
And  plays  the  tyrant  to  control 
Hi?  peer  in  purity  of  soul. 

And  now  I  will  propose  a  toast : 

Long  life  unto  our  hermit  host, 

And  may  his  days  be  blessed  with  peace, 

And  may  his  wisdom  still  increase, 

'Till  he  forego  his  lonely  life, 

And  seek  the  solace  of  a  wife ; 

And  joining  in  our  social  joys, 

Know  earthly  bliss,  with  its  alloys." 

Three  hearty  cheers  the  guests  prolong, 

Then  call  the  hermit  for  a  song. 

He  rose  and  bowed,  with  pensive  smile, 
Seemed  toying  with  the  strings  awhile, 
As  if  sad  memories  from  afar 
Waked  to  the  strains  of  his  guitar  ; 
And  then  with  mournful  voice  and  free, 
According  in  sweet  harmony, 


THE    RECLUSE.  147 

As  if  from  painful  memories  wrung, 
In  thrilling  notes  the  hermit  sung. 


HERMIT'S  SONG. 

O,  what  to  me  are  joys  of  earth  ? 

O,  what  to  me  are  social  joys  ? 
There's  sadness  in  the  strains  of  mirth, 

And  all  things  seem  but  senseless  toys. 
My  hopes  are  buried  in  the  sea, 
My  joys  are  'neath  the  surging  sea  ! 
The  cruel,  the  relentless  sea, 
Holds  all  that  was  so  dear  to  me !  * 

The  hours  seem  lengthened  into  days, 

The  months  are  like  so  many  years, 
And  life,  once  bright  with  gilded  rays, 

Is  filled  with  shadows  and  with  tears. 
My  hopes  lie  buried  in  the  sea — 

Are  tossed  beneath  the  angry  wave, 
And  all  that  once  was  dear  to  me 

Lies  in  a  cruel  ocean  grave ! 


148  THE    RECLUSE. 

There  is  a  hope  amid  the  gloom — 

A  glorious  hope  its  light  doth  shed — 
When  spirits  hurst  their  prison  tomb, 

And  ocean  renders  up  its  dead, 
My  treasure  buried  in  the  sea, 

And  tossed  beneath  the  surging  main,  ' 
Then  from  its  ocean  grave  set  free, 

May  be  restored  to  me  again. 

Now  ceased  the  hermit's  mournful  strain, 
And  died  away  the  sad  refrain — 
A  moment's  silence,  and  no  more, 
When  forward  on  the  cabin  floor, 
The  stranger  lady,  fainting  fell. 
Surprised,  no  one  the  cause  could  tell, 
But  all  with  will  and  hands  essayed, 
To  give  their  sympathy  and  aid. 

They  gently  laid  her  on  the  bed, 

They  chafed  her  hands  and  bathed  her  head. 


THE    RECLUSE.  149 

She  soon  recovered  from  the  trance, 
And  bent  a  tender,  loving  glance 
Upon  the  hermit,  as  she  said  : 
"  The  sea  hath  given  up  its  dead  !" 

"  Edith,  my  darling,  long  lost  bride" — 

The  hermit  in  return  replied  ; 

"  Say,  am  I  dreaming — or  is  this 

An  earthly,  or  a  heavenly  bliss?" 

"  I  know  not,  Richard,  husband,  dear, 

'Tis  joy  to  feel,  that  thou  art  near ; 

'Tis  sweet  to  listen  to  thy  voice. 

O,  let  us  prayerfully  rejoice, 

That  after  dreary  years  of  pain 

Our  severed  hearts  are  one  again." 

"  How  can  it  be,  O,  Edith,  dear, 

Where  have  you  been — how  came  you  here  ? 

Do  I  but  dream,  or  can  it  be 

A  blissful,  blest  reality  ?" 

"  Upon  that  fearful  night  when  we 
Were  swept  into  the  angry  sea, 


150  THE    RECLUSE. 

I  floated  on  a  piece  of  wreck, 

Thrown  from  the  sinking  vessel's  deck, 

'Till  I  was  rescued  by  the  crew 

That  pierced  our  steamer's  timbers  through, 

Who  sent  a  boat  in  hope  to  save, 

The  drowning  from  an  ocean  grave. 

But  none  were  found,  save  only  me — 

All  others  sunk  beneath  the  sea. 

I  sailed  to  England,  but  the  years 

Were  long  and  gloomy,  filled  with  tears. 

Two  months  ago  my  health  to  mend, 

I  sailed  from  England  with  a  friend. 

And  now,  my  dear,  will  you  relate 

The  circumstances  of  your  fate  ?" 

"  It  was  upon  that  dreadful  night 

When  all  I  loved  and  held  most  dear, 

Seemed  gone  forever  from  my  sight, 
With  nothing  left  my  life  to  cheer, 

I  buffeted  the  angry  wave, 
And  clinging  to  cabin  door, 


THE   RECLUSE.  151 

I  sought  my  worthless  life  to  save — 
Was  thrown  upon  a  rocky  shore. 

Two  cheerless  days,  one  dreary  night, 

When  I  descried  afar  a  sail, 
And  on  it  came,  and  near  in  sight, 

I  shouted,  and  they  heard  my  hail. 

They  sent  a  boat,  I  went  aboard, 
And  sailing  for  New  England  shore, 

My  weary  limbs  were  soon  restored, 
But  griej  oppressed  me  evermore. 

I  wandered  on  from  place  to  place, 
But  nothing  seemed  my  life  to  cheer ; 

The  loved,  the  lost,  the  sweet  dear  face 
Was  in  my  vision  ever  near. 

At  length  I  sought  this  wilderness 
Alone  with  Nature  to  commune  ; 

And  now  your  presence  comes  to  bless, 
Like  fragrant  breath  of  balmy  June. 


152  THE    RECLUSE. 

We'll  seek  a  home  in  some  sweet  vale, 
Where  love  shall  crown  our  future  years, 

Where  peace  and  harmony  prevail, 
And  joy  shall  compensate  for  tears. 


19 


LINES. 

ON    THE    MATRIMONIAL    ALLIANCE    OF    AN    AGED 
COUPLE. 


IN  single  blessedness  they  dwelt, 
And  Cupid's  dart  had  never  felt, 
While  many  a  youth  and  blooming  bride, 
The  knot  Hymeneal  had  tied  ; 
Yet  still  inflexible  they  prove, 
And  laugh  at  such  a  thing  as  love : 

Upon  Olympus'  lofty  height, 

Sat  Venus  and  her  son  one  night ; 

Casting  to  Earth,  her  brilliant  eyes, 

Two  lonely  beings  she  espies — 

"  Thou  stupid  boy,  that  could'st  not  see 

Those  two  were  formed  for  unity." 


154  LINES. 

Sporting  thou'st  been  with  every  flower 
That  grows  within  the_Elysian  bower, 
Till  time,  the  stern,  relentless  sage, 
Has  well  nigh  swept  them  from  the  stage 
Of  human  life :  Now  draw  thy  bow, 
And  quick  thy  pointed  shaft  let  go  !" 

Quick  to  his  head  the  boy-god  drew 
Th'  unerring  dart ;  the  arrow  flew, 
And,  though  full  forty  miles  apart. 
Both  at  the  instant  felt  the  smart. 


THE  WHITE  OWL. 


"  White  Owl"  was  the  non  de  plume  of  a  writer  to  the 
Waterbury  Lyceum,  a  literary  society  of  considerable  re 
pute.  The  bird  assumed  to  look  in  upon  the  nightly  gath 
erings  of  the  society,  and  played  the  part  of  critic,  sage  and 
monitor.  These  articles  failing  to  appear  at  several  meet 
ings  of  the  society,  the  fate  of  White  Owl  is  shadowed  in 
the  following  lines,  in  imitation  of  Poe's  Raven  : 


SITTING  in  my  chamber  dreary,  with  the  cares 
of  day  aweary, 
Thinking  what  to  say  that  had  not  oft  been  said 

before — 
What   to  write  for  our   Lyceum,  for  our   weekly 

Atheneum* — 
While  I    nodded,    nearly  napping,  suddenly  there 

came  a  rapping, 

As  some  bird  with  fitful  flapping,  flapping  at  my 
chamber  door. 

This  I  heard  and  nothing  more. 

*\Veekly  paper. 


156  THE   WHITE    OWL. 

Wild    with    sudden    fear  I  started  and  a  piercing 
glance  I  darted— 

Could    it   be  some  of  the  many  ancient  ghosts  of 
yore — 

Then  again  I  heard,  the  flappings,  quoth  I,  'tis  the 
spirit  rappings, 

And  thought  I,  shall  I  be  able  to  prevent  my  wri 
ting  table 

From  jumping  up  and  dancing  round  the  floor — 
And  I  trembled  more  and  more. 

And  I  said  :  What  mystic  power  stalks  abroad  at 

^this  dark  hour? 
For  surely  such  mysterious  sounds  I  never  heard 

before : 
Art  thou  fiend,  or  art  thou  fairy,  from  thy  realms 

so  bright  and  airy  ? 
Then  the  dogs  sat  up  a  night  howl,  and  in  walked 

a  stately  White  Owl, 
With    noisless   tread,   he    slowly    came  along   the 

chamber  floor — 

Stood  and  gazed,  and  nothing  more. 


THE    WHITE    OWL.  157 

In  his  eye  no  look  of  gladness,  but  a  melancholy 

sadness, 

In  his  pallid  countenance  he  hore, 
Fresh,  dark  blood  his  breast  bespattered,  and  with 

pinions  wildly  shattered, 
In  a  saddening  plight  and  cheerless,  and  a  sorrow 

calm  and  tearless, 
Thus  he  stood  with  injured  mood  upon  my  chamber 

floor. 

Thought  I,  White  Owl  is  no  more. 

O  bird  !  said  I,  is  this  real,  or  a  dreamy,  wild  ideal, 
Caught  from  pages  of  some  ancient  wizzard  lore? 
Why  stand'st  thou  here  in  this  condition  ?     Tell,  O 

tell  us  what  thy  mission, 
Thou    the   friend    of  our  Lyceum,  patron  of  the 

Atbeneum, 
Wilt  thou  never  join  again  our  literary  corps  ? 

Said  the  White  Owl,  "  never  more !" 


HARD  TIMES— 1858. 


[Written   by  request  to  contribute   "  something 
funny"  for  the  school  paper.] 


I'M  to  write  by  request  for  your  manuscript  paper, 
Some  comical  rhymes  for  the  matter  of  fun  : 
Thinks  I,  you  have  cut  up  a  bit  of  a  caper- 
It's  myself  that  can't  tell  how  the  thing's  to  be  done. 

When  the  pockets  of  people  are  loaded  with  money, 
They  laugh  of  themselves  without  saying  a  word, 
But  now  should  you  see  one  inclined  to  be  funny, 
Be  sure  he's  insane  or  in  office  preferred. 


HARD   TIMES.  159 

The  doctors  are  sad  at  the  prospect  before  them, 
And  sparingly  deal  out  their  powders  and  pills — 
Leave  their  patients  to  Nature,  who  kindly  restores 

them, 
And  saves  them  the  trouble  of  long  winded  bills. 


The  Lawyer  returns  to  the  plow  and  the  harrow, 
For  his  clients  can't  pay  for  his  plotting  and  pleas ; 
Thus  we  quietly  live,  for  we've  learned  to  our  sor 
row 
That  Lawyers  don't  talk  without  liberal  fees. 


The  Merchant  has  also  his  share  of  vexation  ; 

He  says,  "  things  are  dull,  we  can't  dodge  the  hard 

times ;" 

But  if  we  will  call  at  his  mercantile  station, 
He'll  show  us  the  way  to  save  all  of  our  dimes. 


160  HARD    TIMES. 

Old  Bachelors,  too,  are  flocking  together — 
They  cannot  afford  the  expense  of  a  wife — 
They  grumble  and  croak  through  the  inclement 

weather, 
At  the  ills  that  compel  them  to  bachelor  life. 

The  times  !  the  hard  times  !  the  people  are  crying, 
And  every  one   laughs   with    with  an   ill  applied 

grace ; 

If  he  tries  to  look  glad,  it  endeth  in  sighing, 
And  he  makes  at  the  best,  but  a  sorrowful  face. 


20 


BOB. 

THEY  called  him  Bob — they  knew  him  by  no 
other — 

I  know  not  if  he  had  another  name — 
A  faithful  lad-,  who  loved  his  widowed  mother, 
And  cared  but  little  for  applause  or  fame. 

Somehow  he  gained  a  fund  of  information, 
And  soon  became  a  kind  of  engineer  ; 

•He  run  the  "  Flying  Dutchman"  at  the  station, 
An  ancient  engine,  wheezy  quaint  and  queer. 

This  he  remodeled  in  a  thorough  manner, 
Made  new  the  cylinder, 'improved  the  stroke, 

Till  many  an  engineer  upon  his  honor 

Declared  the  Flying  Dutchman  was  "  no  joke." 


162  BOB. 

It  chance«  1  just  then,  an  engineer  quite  noted, 
Through  drunkenness  had  come  into  disgrace ; 

And  thus  our  hero,  Bob,  became  promoted 
To  run  the  passenger,  and  take  his  place. 

He  grew  in  favor  in  his  new  position, 

With  steady  hand  and  cool,  courageous  brain, 

He  seemed  an  engineer  by  intuition — 

The  place  he  honored  and  could  well  maintain. 


A  July  day  had  closed  with  tempest  roaring- — 
A  fearful  thunder-gust  with  flooding  rain — 

The  angry  torrents  from  the  hills  were  pouring, 
And  Bob  was  on  to  run  the  midnight  train. 

The  night  came  down  with  concentrated  blackness 
And  covered  earth  as  with  a  sable  pall — 

A  seeming  chaos, — limitless  and  trackless, 
Above,  beneath,  around,  enveloped  all ! 

Near,  on  the  track,  the  glaring  head-light  gleaming, 
WThat  dangers  were  ahead,  no  one  could  guess  ! 

The  fearful  darkness  seemed  with  perils  teeming, 
As  thundered  on  the  midnight  mail  express! 


BOB.  163 

But  now  a  light — a  signal  light  of  danger 

Has  caught  Bob's  watchful,  penetrating  sight ; 

"  Down   breaks !"  he   whistled,   though  to   fear  a 

stranger, 
He  knew  full  well  the  perils  of  the  night. 

And  now  the  train,  at  rapid  speed  advancing, 
With  screeching  brakes  came  to  a  sudden  stand  ; 

A  hundred  eyes  then  to  the  front  were  glancing, 
Eager  to  see  what  dangers  were  at  hand. 

There  stood   Delphine,  the  farmer's  brave  young 

daughter, 
Waving  a  signal-light  above  the  track, 

While  roaring  on,  the  turbid  maddened  water, 
Rushed  through  the  yawning  chasm  at  her  back! 

I  need  not  here  record  the  praise,  the  glory 
That  came  unsought  unto  the  modest  maid— 

A  theme  quite  meet  for  poem  or  for  story, 
Of  her  who  gave  that  night  her  saving  aid. 

But  happy  Bob,  now  in  his  sweet  retirement, 

With  pride  would  tell  you  how  he  gained  a  wife, 

(Nor  think  the  tale  a  burdensome  requirement,) 
That  fearful  night  when  Delphine  saved  his  life. 


A  RETROSPECT. 


1  PLUCKED  a  rose,  when  but  a  boy — 
A  simple,  chaste  and  beauteous  flower; 
Its  memory  is  a  living  joy 

That  lightens  many  a  tedious  hour. 

I  saw  it  drooping  on  its  stem, 

Weighed  down  with  dew  at  early  morn, 
And  sparkling  bright  with  many  a  gem 

That  might  a  coronet  adorn. 

Aye,  that  was  many  years  ago, 
That  seemeth  now  as  but  a  day  ; 

Time  then  crept  on  so  very  slow, 
That  now  flies  like  the  wind  away 


A    RETROSPECT.  165 

A  father's  care  was  o'er  me  then 
A  mother's  love  was  mine  to  bless ; 

And  though  they'll  ne'er  return  again, 
Their  memory  bringeth  happiness. 

Thus  kindly  deeds  are  never  lost : 
A  mother's  love,  undying  still — 

Still  guides  our  bark,  though  tempest-tost, 
And  bears  us  on  through  good  and  ill. 

And  like  the  rose  that  drops  its  leaves 
To  cause  a  pang  of  childish  pain, 

And  for  a  time  our  spirit  grieves, 
Its  fragrance  ever  doth  remain. 


DEATH  OF  A  SISTER. 


MY  darling  sister,  youngest  of  the  flock, 
Who  was  to  us  on  earth  so  very  dear, 
How  sadly  falls  the  news  upon  the  ear, 
That  thou  art  gone  !  We  feel  the  painful  shock, 
And  wondering  ask,  why  should  we  linger  here, 
While  thou  art  called  in  strength  of  womanhood 
From  thy  dear  friends — thy  work  of  doing  good  ? 
How  fleet  is  time !  It  seems  but  yesterday 
I  heard  thy  childish  laugh  in  sportive  glee, 
And  saw  thee  in  thy  girlhood,  light  and  free, 
Oft  by  the  brook,  where  thou  wert  wont  to  stray 
To  watch  the  trout  play  in  its  waters  bright— 
And  gather  flowers  and  pebbles  by  the  way : 
Gone  now,  forever  from  our  earthly  sight ! 


A  MOTHER'S  LOVE. 


THE  purest  thing  on  earth — a  mother's  love  ; 
The  most  unselfish  gift  to  mortals  given— 
The  highest,  choicest  attribute  of  heaven, 
And  worthy  its  hestowment  from  above. 
It  clieth  not,  forever  bright  and  pure, 
Though  fades  the  form  and  passes  from  our  sight, 
That  once  inclosed  the  pure  and  peerless  gem, 
Richer  than  aught  in  sovreign's  diadem. 
This  priceless  gift,  that  ever  doth  endure, 
Untouched  by  time,  and  growing  yet  more  bright, 
Oft  glows  the  beacon -light  by  which  we  steer 
Our  mortal  bark  to  reach  the  port  at  last 
Through  all  the  perils  we  encounter  here — 
To  find  the  haven  and  outride  the  blast. 


MADNESS. 


K 


NOW'ST   thou  of  aught  more  cruel  than  the 


grave  ? 


It  is  when  human  reason  flies  its  throne, 
And  as  a  ship  when  from  its  moorings  blown, 
Floats  at  the  mercy  of  the  angry  wave 
With  none  to  guide — no  mortal  hand  to  save. 

If  thou  hast  had  a  friend  thus  tempest-tost, 
With  mind  unanchored,  hopelessly  afloat, 
Sport  of  the  wave,  with  mental  rudder  lost, 
Borne  to  his  death,  with  no  life-saving  boat- 
Hast  heard  the  maniac  laugh  that  rends  the  soul— 
The  flashing  wit  that  pierceth  to  the  heart — 
Fierce  passion  which  no  reason  could  control — 
Then  thou  hast  known  the  grief  and  felt  the   smart 
More  keen  than  fiendish  torture  can  impart. 


21 


AUTUMN  TINTS. 


FIRST  carne  the  sumac  with  its  scarlet  flame, 
And  then  the  maple  with  its  yellow  tint, 
Like  burnished  gold  just  glowing  from  the  mint; 
And  now  the  "  brave  old  oak,"  of  English  fame, 
That  in  our  hemisphere  sustains  its  name, 
With  purpling  hues,  fast  changing  into  brown, 
Its  mottled  foliage  to  the  blast  comes  down 
Softly  as  snow-flake  in  the  winter  came. 
On  every  side  the  changing  woods  are  gay 
With  gorgeous  coloring  ;   no  artist  dare 
With  brush  or  pencil  paint  the  florid  hues 
In  striking  contrast  to  the  prairies  gray, 
Stripped  of  their  beauty,  desolate  and  bare— 
"  A  subject,  meet  for  melancholy  muse." 


GAEFIELD. 


MOURN  not  for  him  the  nation's  chief, 
Whose  course  on  earth  is  run — 
For  human  life  at,  best  is  brief — 

His  work  was  nobly  done: 
He  stood  among  the  garnered  sheaves 
When  set  his  earthly  sun  ! 

Mourn  not  the  hardships  of  his  youth, 

For  human  lives  are  tried — 
Foul  error  purged  from  glowing  truth, 

As  gold  is  purified  ; 
The  purest  one  that  ever  lived 

On  earth,  was  crucified  ! 


GARFIELD.  171 

But  mourn  the  nation's  deep  disgrace, 

The  foul  and  damning  stain  ; 
And  while  in  shame  we  hide  our  face, 

And  writhe  in  mental  pain, 
O  let  us  pray  ;  "  Speed,  speed  the  day 

When  Purity  shall  reign." 

Then  sleep  thee  sound,  O  martyred  chief ! 

And  peaceful  be  thy  rest ; 
Thy  nation's  counselor,  though  brief, 

She  crowns  thee  with  her  best 
Who  sleep — the  noble,  cherished  few, 

Whose  words  and  deeds  are  blest. 


EEGRET. 


T  SIT  beneath  the  beeehen  shade 
-**  Where  erst  we  sat — my  love  with  me — 
When  I  was  but  a  youthful  maid, 
And  but  a  bashful  lad  was  he. 

'Twas  in  the  beauteous  month  of  June 

When  field  and  wood  in  green  were  drest, 

The  air  was  hushed,  while  hung  the  moon 
Her  slender  crescent  in  the  west. 

We  sat  in  silence  ;  not  a  word 

Escaped  our  lips,  his  hand  held  mine ; 

He  trembled  as  some  feeling  stirred 
His  being  he  could  not  divine. 


REGRET.  173 

At  length  he  asked  me  for  his  bride  ; 

My  thoughtless  answer  brought  its  woe  ; 
I  listened  to  my  foolish  pride — 

My  heart  said  yes,  my  tongue  said  no. 

He  left  me  'neath  the  beechen  shade, 
The  moon  sunk  o'er  the  western  hill ; 

Remorse  a  deeper  shadow  made 
Upon  my  life,  and  haunts  it  still. 

I  sit  to-night  beneath  the  tree 

Where  erst  we  sat  in  days  of  yore  ; 

A  saddening  thought  comes  over  me, 
For  youth  is  fled  for  evermore  ! 

The  summer's  gone,  the  leaf  is  sere, 

The  moon  glints  down  with  frozen  light, 

The  wind  shrieks  through  the  branches  drear, 
And  adds  its  terrors  to  the  night ! 

While  here  I  sit  with  painful  thought 

On  him  whose  fate  my  word  had  sealed — 

A  sad  experience,  dearly  bought — 
He  sleeps  on  Chattanooga's  field ! 


DEATH  OF  DECORA. 

Decora,  chief  of  the  Winnebagos,  was  dec-ended  in  a  direct  line 
from  the  union  of  a  French  officer  uamed  De  Carry  with  Ho-po-ho- 
e-kaw,  ''Glory  of  the  morning,"  chinftess  of  the  tribe  O  chnnck-o  raw 
or  Winnebagos.  He  died  at  an  advanced  age,  in  the  fall  of  1864  near 
Tomah  Wis.,  in  extreme  poverty.  He  possessed  a  fine  physical  and 
mental  organization,  but  had  been  nearly  blind  for  several  years. 
It  was  this  chief  who  captured  Black  Hawk  in  1832.  and  delivered 
him  to  our  jrovernmeut. 


HIEF  of  the  Wennebago  band, 
Brave  of  spirit  and  strong  of  hand  ! 
In  thy  Indian  veins  by  chance, 
Mingles  the  blood  of  sunny  France, 
From  the  chieftess  Ho-po-ho-e-kaw, 
Queen  of  the  tribe  0-cliiirik-o-raw" 


DEATH    OF    DECORA.  175 

Born  of  a  fearless  iron-race, 

E'en  Time  himself  doth  slowly  trace 

His  care-lines  on  thy  sun-bronzed  face. 

Thy  step  was  firm,  thy  form  was  straight, 

Under  a  century's  leaden  weight ; 

But  closed  forever  thy  eagle-sight ; 

Thou  cans't  but  dream  of  the  blessed  light 

That  erst  shone  over  thy  once  loved  land, 

Where  roamed  and  hunted  thy  happy  band. 

And  now  thou'rt  come  to  sleep  at  last, 
Where  thy  days  of  youth  and  manhood  passed 
Hunting  the  deer  and  buffalo, 
'Mid  summer's  rains  and  winter's  snow, 
And  taking  scalps  of  the  hated  foe. 

Thy  sun  sinks  low,  thy  hour  is  come, 

Chaunt  the  dirge  and  beat  the  drum, 

Hi-ya-ho-yah-hi-yah-hoo, 

Bring  forth  the  scalps  of  the  hated  Sioux, 

Swing  them  aloft  by  the  raven  hair, 

Let  the  war  whoop  rend  the  air  ! 


176  DEATH    OF    DECORA. 

* 

Sink  it  low  in  a  mournful  wail, 
Dying  away  on  the  sighing  gale ; 
Echo  it  back  from  each  rocky  nook, 
Murmur  it  on  in  the  running  brook  ; 
Whisper  it  in  the  pines  above, 
Soft  and  sweet  as  a  mother's  love. 

Now  hath  ceased  the  loved  chief's  breath, 
Stark  and  cold  his  form  in  death  ! 
Hi-yah-ho-yah-he-yah-hee, 
Bury  him  under  the  blasted  tree ! 
Place  by  his  side  the  arrow  and  bow, 
Let  him  away  to  the  loved  ones  go, 
Where  the  deer  and  antelope  abound, 
In  the  blissful  far-off  hunting  ground  ! 

What  are  they  here  but  the  white  man's  jibe, 
The  fragments  of  a  shattered  tribe, 
Faded  and  fallen  their  once  proud  band, 
Only  to  bloom  in  the  spirit  land ! 
Hi-yah-ho-yah-hi-yah-hee, 
Bury  him  under  the  blasted  tree ! 
22 


THE  FOUNTAIN. 


PURE  sparkling   fountain,  from   thy  mountain 
cave, 

That  doth  rejoice  to  greet  the  blessed  light, 
As  bursting  from  thy  deep,  imprisoned  night, 
Thou  leap'st  to  gladness  in  thy  crystal  wave, 
And  dashest  onward,  fetterless  and  brave, 
O'er  shining  pebbles,  singing  on  thy  way, 
Like  some  freed  child  that  revels  in  its  play, 
Nor  stop'st  to  think  the  world  hath  duties  grave. 
Bright,  happy  fountain  !    would  that  thou  could'st 

tell 

The  mysteries  that  Nature  doth  conceal 
Deep,  darkly  hidden  in  her  caves  below, 
And  never  yet  to  mortal  eye  revealed  ; 
Where,  'mid  the  winding  grots  and  fairy  cells, 
Perchance  thy  crystal  waters  ever  flow. 


LONG  AGO. 


CARELESS  words  were  spoken,  long  ago; 
Sacred  vows  were  broken,  long  ago  ; 

And  many  a  dreary  day, 

On  life's  weary  way, 

I  have  journeyed  since  those  days,  long  ago. 
O,  those  gay  and  blissful  days,  long  ago ! 
O,  those  joyous,  sunny  days,  long  ago ! 

When  everything  was  bright, 

And  touched  with  fairy  light, 
In  those  careless,  blissful  days,  long  ago. 


LONG    AGO.  179 

» 

We  met  and  we  parted,  long  ago ; 
My  love  was  false-hearted,  long  ago  ; 

His  careless  words  that  flattered, 

My  earthly  idol  shattered, 
And  left  naught  but  bitterness  and  woe. 

Oh !  the  anguish  of  those  days,  long  ago  ! 

Oh  !  the  wretchedness  and  tears,  long  ago ! 
Aye,  the  wretchedness  and  tears, 
When  all  that  life  endears, 
W"as  wrecked  in  that  fearful  long  ago. 

My  youth  lost  its  lightness,  long  ago ; 
My  life  lost  its  brightness,  long  ago  ; 

And  I  labor  to  forget 

The  time  when  erst  we  met, 
And  the  anguish  of  that  parting,  long  ago, 
The  darkness  of  those  days,  long  ago  ! 

I  toil  and  labor  here, 

The  sick  and  sad  to  cheer, 
And  live  down  the  sorrow  and  the  woe, 
Forgetful  of  the  sad  Ions:  ago. 

O  O        O 


THE  APPLE-SAUCE  MAN." 


THERE  lived  in  New  England,  a  long  time  ago, 
A  man  of  queer  habits,  as  seldom  you'd  know  ; 
He  sold  apple-sauce  by  the  quart  or  the  can, 
And  the  people  all  called  him  "  The  Apple-sauce 
man." 

He  lived  on  a  hill,  and  he  used  to  come  down 
With  the  berries  he  picked  and  sell  them  in  town ; 
And  the  boys,  when  they  saw  him,  they  always  began 
To  shout  and  hurrah  for  the  Apple-sauce  man. 

A  sort  of  philosopher,  was  he,  in  truth, 
And  took  jokes  most  kindly  from  old  folks  and  youth: 
"  My  dears,  always  take  all  the  comfort  you  can, 
For  life  is  but  short,"  said  the  Apple-sauce  man. 


"  THE    APPLE-SAUCE    MAN."  181 

"  Make  the  most  of  this  world,  you're  not  sure  of 

another, 

Eat,  drink  and  be  merry,  my  sister  and  brother  ; 
Remember  my  counsel  and  follow  my  plan, 
And  you'll  surely  be  blest,"  said  the  Apple-sauce 

man. 

He  died  years  ago,  and  I  haven't  a  doubt, 
The  truth  of  his  theory  he  has  found  out ; 
But  wherever  he  is,  I  would  not  dare  bet 
That  he  is  not  selling  his  Apple-sauce  yet. 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


STOWE,  VT.,  Jan.  1845. 

night,  and  ceaseless  Time  again 
Proclaimed  once  more  the  hour  of  ten  ; 
I  took  my  pen,  and  first  I  knew, 
Coz,  I  was  scribbling  to  you. 
Will  please  excuse  the  want  of  grace, 
Ideas  trite,  words  common-place  ; 
Had  I  ability  and  time 
To  choose  my  words  and  smooth  my  rhyme, 
It  should  be  better ;   but  I  write 
In  unpremeditated  plight, 
And  needs  must,  beg  you  to  forbear 
Your  censure  for  my  want  of  care. 


CORRESPONDENCE.  183 

The  night  is  beautiful !  On  high 
The  moon  glides  through  a  cloudless  sky; 
Afar  on  Mansfield's  snow-clad  height, 
Glimmers  her  melancholy  light ; 
While  forests  dark  and  hills  around, 
Sleep  in  tranquility  profound. 
Dost  worship  such  an  hour  as  this  ? 
Then  hast  thou  felt  poetic  bliss ! 

But  vain  the  charms  of  earth  and  air, 
If  love  or  friendship  be  not  there. 
Can  Sol  with  genial  ray  impart 
A  spell  to  thaw  the  frozen  heart  ? 

No,  e'en  the  magic  charms  of  spring, 
With  beauteous  floral  offering — 
With  glittering  dew-gems  sparkling  bright. 
Resplendent  in  the  morning  light — 
Wilh  every  field  and  budding  grove 
Resounding  to  the  notes  of  love 
That  mingle  in  harmonious  song, 
With  brook  and  rill  that  skip  along — 


184  CORRESPONDENCE. 

They  make  no  music  to  our  ear, 
If  friendship's  offering  be  not  here. 

What  think'st  thou  cousin  ?  do  we  prize 
High  as  we  ought,  those  friendly  ties 
That  give  to  life  its  magic  power — 
A  sun-beam  in  its  darkest  hour  ? 

The  cup  of  human  life,  I  trow, 
Is  strangely  mixed  with  weal  and  woe, 
And  oft  more  like  a  mystic  dream 
Than  a  reality  doth  seem : 
Now  Hope  puts  forth  her  gilded  ray, 
To  light  our  dim  uncertain  way, 
,  Anon  our  aspirations  proud 
Sink  in  Despondency's  dark  cloud. 

But  it  were  better  I  dismiss 
A  melancholy  theme  like  this, 
A  bit  of  gossip  chat,  and  then 
I'll  lay  aside  my  weary  pen ; 
For  I  divine  I  write  in  vain, 
Unless  I  touch  a  cheerful  strain. 

23 


CORRESPONDENCE.  851 

****-::-«•* 

Tell  friends  to  write  me  without  fail — 

I  watch  with  interest  every  mail — 

Forgetting  not,  yourself  the  while, 

To  write  in  your  peculiar  style, 

And  let  me  know  if  you  enjoy 

True  happiness  without  alloy— 

Your  cheerful  home,  the  friends  sincere, 

Have  left  a  memory  ever  dear — 

Especially  I  can't  forget 

Good  natured  artless  Harriet. 

The  clock  rings  out  the  night's  deep  noon, 
High  in  the  zenith  is  the  moon  ; 
And  you  are  wearied  by  this  time 
With  this  monotony  of  rhyme  ; 
And  I  will  close,  and  ask  excuse. 
Your  humble  cousin, 

s.  s.  LUCE. 


186  CORRESPONDENCE. 


STOWE,  VT.,  Nov.  1846. 

LETTER    TO    A    FRIEND. 

My  friend,  a  thousand  thanks  are  due 

For  that  poetic  note  from  you, 

So  kindly  fraught  with  friendship  true 

And  love  sincere ; 
I  fear  I  never  can  repay 
You  in  my  rude,  imperfect  way, 

For  words  so  dear. 

Last  Thursday  Eve,  with  care  opprest, 
Deeming  myself  the  most  unblest 
Of  mortal  sinners  unconfessed, 

In  mood  most  blue, 
I  called  at  the  P.  O.  to  see 
If  aught  was  superscribed  to  me, 

My  friend,  from  you. 


CORRESPONDENCE.  187 

Hast  seen  upon  some  dismal  day, 

The  sun  break  forth  with  sparkling  ray. 

And  light  all  Nature  up  so  gay 

With  gladsome  smile,  • 
That  one  would  hardly  think  that  e'er 
A  storm  had  swept,  or  tempest  drear, 

Her  face  the  while  ? 

'Twas  thus  with  me  ;   I  felt  the  glow 
Of  sun-light  on  my  being  flow  : 
I  hurried  home  with  pace  not  slow 

Once  more"  to  trace 

Those  words  which  sweetest  pleasure  bring, 
And  o'er  the  clouds  of  sorrow  fling 

Sun-light  and  peace. 

What  were  this  world  in  all  its  pride, 

When  it  shall  only  serve  to  hide 

Our  dearest  friends  ?  Can  aught  beside 

E'er  make  us  glad  ? 
No,  all  the  charms  of  earth  and  air 
May  greet  our  vision  everywhere, 

and  vet  we're  sad. 


188  CORRESPONDENCE. 


STOWE,  VT.,  CHRISTMAS  EVE,  1846. 
LETTER  TO  A  FRIEND. 

Kind  friend,  a  busy  day  is  past ; 
I  sit  me  clown  to  list  the  blast, 
That  howls  in  fitful  gusts  along, 
And  wildly  shrieks  in  cheerless  song. 

I  look  to  hill  and  plain,  but  drear 
Is  all  around,  with  naught  to  cheer. 
Old  Mansfield's  bleak  and  snow-clad  brow 
Is  darkly  wreathed  in  storm-cloud  now ; 
West  Branch  is  mute  and  sings  no  more 
Along  its  verdant  winding  shore, 
But  bound  by  winter's  icy  chain, 
Seems  silenced,  ne'er  to  wake  again. 


CORRESPONDENCE.  189 

Not,  as  in  y  friend,  when  you  were  here, 
Its  notes  fall  pleasing  on  the  ear ; 

0  no,  and  yet  it  seems  so  strange, 

That  time,  thus  brief,  could  make  such  change. 

It  was  but  yesterday  the  flowers 
Were  blooming  sweetly,  and  the  bowers 
Were  clothed  in  green ;  the  birds  so  gay 
Sang  in  their  shadow  all  the  day. 
Hushed  is  their  song,  the  flowers  are  fled, 
The  leaves  are  scattered,  all  seems  dead. 

Alas,  my  friend,  how  like  a  dream 

Things  of  reality  do  seem  ? 

Is  man  deemed  wise?   What  does  he  know 

Of  skies  above  or  earth  below ! 

But  cease  this  strain,  lest  I  should  bring 

A  chilling  blast  to  mar  thy  spring; 

Were  all  but  truthful  or  sincere, 

There'd  be  no  winter  in  our  year : 

»/ 

1  mean  that  winter  of  the  heart, 
V*  Inch  freezes  the  immortal  part. 


190  CORRESPONDENCE. 

I  hailed  your  letter  with  delight, 
Read  it  with  pleasure,  thankful  quite 
That  you  should  not  forget  to  send 
Such  kindly  greeting  to  your  friend. 
It  was  to  me  no  small  diversion 
To  hear  the  tale  of  your  excursion  ; 
You  don't  like  novels,  eh,  I'll  het 
You'd  write  a  first-class  novelette. 

Your  school-house  good,  your  scholars  bright, 
And  all  things  moving  on  just  right — 
Well,  that  is  fine;  I  wish  you  all 
The  joy  you  merit ;  that's  no  small 
Or  selfish  wish,  for  well  I  trow 
You'd  seldom  taste  the  cup  of  woe.' 

The  hour  is  waxing  late,  I  ween, 
For  not  a  light  can  now  be  seen, 
Except  a  taper's  feeble  ray, 
Dim  through  the  casement  o'er  the  way, 
And  I,  my  tedious  rhyme  will  close, 
And  wish  you  friend,  a  bon  repose. 


CORRESPONDENCE.  191 


GALESVILLE,  Nov.  24,  1881. 

ADDRESSED  TO  MBS.  M.  M.  B. 

*How  short,  dear  sister,  seems  the  time, 

Since  we  were  in  our  youthful  prime, 

And  wandered  often  by  the  brook  ; 

You  plucking  flowers,  and  I  with  hook, 

To  coy  the  trout ;  for  then  as  now, 

The  girls  were  wront  upon  their  brow 

To  wreathe  sweet  flowers,  while  boys  oft  sought 

The  rougher  pleasures,  dearly  bought. 

But  most  I  mind  me  of  the  hours 
When  Autumn's  frost  had  chilled  the  flowers, 
And  night  was  fierce  and  wild  without, 
While  piercing  winds  with  angry  shout, 


192  CORRESPONDENCE. 

Along  the  vale  and  wooded  hill, 

Now  gruffly  roared,  then  whistled  shrill, 

Pierced  every  crevice  as  it  blew 

And  shook  the  dwelling  through  and  through, 

While  frozen  sleet  and  pattering  rain 

Dashed  fiercely  'gainst  the  window  pane. 

Yet  we  were  sheltered  for  the  night, 
While  cheerful  wood-fire  blazing  bright, 
Roared  up  the  ample  chimney's  throat, 
And  sent  its  gleam  to  parts  remote, 
In  the  old  kitchen  where  we  sat 
Encircled  round  in  social  chat. 

How  bright  and  genial  was  the  glow ! 
We  cared  not  how  the  winds  might  blow, 
Nor  how  the  winter  storms  might  beat; 
We  cared  not  for  the  rain  and  sleet, 
Our  social  band  was  then  complete. 

Our  grandsire,  with  his  years  grown  grey, 

Was  dreaming  of  an  early  day, 

And  took  the  liberty  of  age 

To  give  the  young  his  counsel  sage. 

24 


CORRESPONDENCE.  193 

He*  thought  the  men  of  modern  days 
Were  taking  to  degenerate  ways, 
They  in  the  time  when  he  was  young, 
Were  just  in  deed,  discreet  of  tongue. 
Our  father  tolls  the  tale  again 
Of  Platsburg  battle  on  Champlain  ; 
And  best  of  all,  our  mother  cheers, 
With  many  a  song  our  childish  ears, 
Or  reads  a  poem,  or  perchance, 
Relates  some  tale  of  wild  romance, 
Our  childish  pleasures  to  enhance. 

Thus  wore  the  evening  hours  away 
In  social  happiness  ;  to-day, 
I'm  thinking  of  the  priceless  joys 
That  came  to  us  when  girls  and  boys, 
WThile  sitting  by  that  ancient  hearth, 
In  merry  chat  and  heart-felt  mirth  : 
I'm  thinking  of  the  happy  band, 
The  many  gone  unto  that  land, 
From  whence  no  traveler  returns, 
For  which  the  mortal  spirit  yearns, 


194  CORRESPONDENCE. 

Yet  fears  to  enter  at  the  gate, 

Which  all  must  pass,  or  soon  or  late. 

I  mind  me,  too,  when  spring  again 

Had  come  to  check  drear  Winter's  reign, 

And  Sol,  with  a  more  genial  ray, 

Began  to  melt  the  snow  away 

From  the  huge  maple's  rugged  base, 

In  that  familiar  sugar  place  ; 

Then  on  the  crust  in  morning  prime, 

WThen  every  shrub  with  sparkling  rime 

Was  iflitterins;  in  the  mornins:  sun — 

O  O  o 

Witli  laugh  and  shout  we  used  to  run, 
While  that  old  wooded,  grand  arcade 
Sent  back  the  merry  shouts  we  made, 
As  peopled  by  some  nymph  or  sprite, 
Rejoicing  in  the  morning  bright. 
And  well  I  mind  me  of  the  spot 
Where  the  old  caldrons,  seething  hot 
Between  huge  logs,  with  fire  agleam, 
Sent  heaven-ward  the  smoke  and  steam. 
'Twas  here,  in  spring  we  used  to  meet, 
Ostensiblv  to  taste  the  sweet, 


CORRESPONDENCE.  lt»"> 

But  more,  I  think,  the  social  joys, 
So  fondly  prized  by  girls  and  boys. 

When  later  in  the  spring  we  strayed 
By  sunny  slope  and  opening  glade, 
To  pluck  the  earliest  flowers  of  spring, 
To  hear  the  joyous  wood-notes  ring 
Of  gladsome  birds,  returned  again 
To  greet  us  with  their  welcome  strain, 
How  sweet  was  Nature  everywhere  ? 
The  earth,  the  sky,  the  fragrant  air, 
Might  well  with  paradise  compare. 
The  summer  days  of  sweat  and  toil, 
To  coax  the  hard  and  stubborn  soil 
To  yield  its  comforts  and  its  gain, 
Brought  less  of  pleasure  than  of  pain  ; 
But  autumn  with  its  golden  sheaves, 
Its  gaily  tinted  forest  leaves — 
The  dropping  nuts,  a  sound  so  dear 
To  every  doating,  childish  ear— 
The  burdened  orchards  too,  that  shed 
Their  treasures  striped,  yellow,  red, 


190  CORRESPONDENCE. 

Leave  mem'ries  that  will  not  decay 
Till  life  on  earth  shall  pass  away, 
Full  oft  I  think  and  nightly  dream, 
Of  walks  we  took  along  the  stream 
With  our  dear  mother,  who  could  see 
Sweet  charms  in  every  shrub  and  tree, 
And  in  all  things  God's  loving  care, 
For  which  she  breathed  a  grateful  prayer. 
She  taught  her  children  to  revere 
The  gifts  bestowed  upon  them  here, 
And  to  accept  with  thankfulness 
These  gifts,  which  came  their  lives  to  bless. 

A  devotee  at  Nature's  shrine, 
She  seemed  inspired  with  love,  divine  ; 
She  worshiped  the  green  earth  she  trod, 
Yet  looked  from  "  Nature  up  to  God." 

As  time  rolls  on  from  year  to  year, 
And  robs  us  of  our  friends  most  dear, 
And  leaves  us  less  our  lives  to  cheer, 
Death  would  be  welcome  at  the  end 
Could  we  but  know  that  each  dear  friend, 


CORRESPONDENCE.  197 

Would  join  us  in  another  sphere, 
To  know  each  other  there  as  here. 

Oft  as  I  take  a  backward  view  * 
To  that  old  home  when  life  was  new, 
I  seem  to  be  a  child  once  more, 
And  live  the  old  *enes  as  of  yore. 
A  father's  care  was  o'er  us  then, 
The  kindest,  patientest  of  men, 
So  unassuming  in  his  ways", 
He  lived  for  others,  sought  no  praise. 
His  sunless  life  of  constant  toil, 
Forever  delving  at  the  soil, 
To  feed  the  hungry  and  to  wait 
His  recompense  "  beyond  the  gate." 

I  oft  our  school-day  life  recall, 

So  brief,  and  yet  more  prized  withal, 

Eked  from  that  season  of  the  year 

When  snows  were  deep  and  winds  were  drear, 

O'er  long  and  weary -roads  to  go, 

'Gainst  biting  frosts,  through  drifts  of  snow. 


198  CORRESPONDENCE. 

At  school  we  form  those  friendships  clear, 
Which  brighter  grow  from  y ear, CT  •>£-*-*- 
And  only  cease  when  Death  shall  call, 
As  soon  or  late  he  doth  for  all. 

Aye,  many  a  friend  of  priceless  worth, 
Has  passed  beyond  the  scenes  of  earth  ! 
Gone  !  severed  is  the  social  band, 
Gone  to  enjoy  that  "  better  land ;" 
Gone,  father,  mother,  sister,  brother — 
And  Nature's  law  seems  here  reversed, 
The  younger  children  passing  first, 
While  we  who  here  remain  to-day 
Are  growing  care-worn,  wrinkled,  gray, 
And  have  but  little  time  to  wait 
Our  destiny — for  such  is  fate  ! 
Yet  cheerful  still  may  be  our  years, 
While  hope  sustains  and  friend  endears, 
With  smiles  still  glistening  through  our  tears. 


VISIONS  OF  THE  PAST. 


VISIONS  of  the  past,  to  my  view  revealing, 
Whatsoe'er   was    charming   and   beautiful 

in  youth  ; 

Voices  of  the  past  on  my  ear  are  stealing, 
Glowing  with  the  purity  and  eloquence  of  truth. 

Errors  of  the  past,  pierce  the  soul  with  sorrow— 
Bring  to  the  conscience  repentance  and  regret ; 
Shadows  of  the  past  may  a  gilding  borrow, 
And  the  skies  may  brighten  ere  the  sun  be  set. 

Virtues  of  the  past,  brighter  and  yet  brighter 
Grow  with  our  growth,  and  strengthen  with  each. 

year ; 

Burdens  of  the  past,  lighter  and  yet  lighter, 
Come  to  the  pure  in  heart,  till  life  disappear. 


200  VISIONS    OF    THE    PAST. 

Sorrows  of  the  past  doth  the  spirit  chasten, 
Teach  human  frailty,  the  brevity  of  time  ; 
"  Work  while  the  day  lasts,"  as  we  forward  hasten 
On  our  sacred  mission  to  the  end  sublime. 

Pleasures  of  the  past,  though  alloyed  and  fleeting, 
Fill  us  with  gratitude  and  thankfulness  of  heart ; 
Sunshine  and  shadow — while  our  hearts  are  beating, 

-  O7 

Only  by  the  contrast  we  know  the  two  apart. 

Friendships  of  the  past — stronger  and  yet  stronger 
Grow  the  social  bands  as  human  life  proceeds  ; 
Clear  burns  the  steady  light,  brighter  and  longer 
With  the  true  and  faithful  in  their  words  and  deeds. 

Loves  of  the  past — they  liveth  on  forever  ! 
The  purest  of  earth,  and  most  radient  above ; 
What,  though  all    else  decay,    they  shall  perish 

never, 
For   love   doth  come  of  God,  and  God  himself  is 

love. 


25 


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